


Shifting Heaven and Earth

by BuggreAlleThis



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Bodyswap, Crowley never Fell, Depression, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mind Manipulation, Mind Meld, Psychological Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, The Fall - Freeform, Trauma, Undercover Missions, Violence, Wing Grooming, anti-corruption, neurodivergent Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-07-28 20:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 77,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuggreAlleThis/pseuds/BuggreAlleThis
Summary: For most of history, since he narrowly avoiding Falling from Heaven with Lucifer, Crowley has been working for the Angelic Corruption Unit. This ended up being far more boring than he hoped it would be, but things change when he is assigned to go undercover on Earth. His mission is to investigate Aziraphale, an infamous angel who has been on Earth since its Creation, and whom Heaven is sure is guilty of corruption or dereliction of duty. He soon discovers that life on Earth is far more complicated than he'd been led to imagine, especially when Aziraphale's demonic counterpart, Hastur, arrives on the scene.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a joke about the television series _Line of Duty_ and spiralled from there. The title is a line from Series 3. Absolutely no knowledge of _Line of Duty_ is required, and no characters or plotlines appear. I might not be able to resist the odd joke, but you only need GO knowledge to follow it. 
> 
> _Line of Duty_ is a programme that follows police officers in AC-12, a unit dedicated to uncovering corruption within the British police service. One of the characters usually goes undercover as a sergeant or constable to the Inspector they are investigating, which is where the idea of Crowley (Kralel) going undercover as Aziraphale's apprentice came from.

Gabriel sat at his desk, at the other end of the empty expanse of room. Kralel flew the last few hundred metres. It gave a good impression. Gabriel was all about the Workplace Virtues, and the greatest of these was Efficiency. “Hi, sir, sorry – you wanted me?”

“Yes! Sit down, sit down – you’re not in any trouble!” Gabriel said with a wide smile. Kralel returned it, reassured, and sat down on the stool opposite him. “It’s good news, in fact!”

They both laughed – ‘Good News’ was a favourite pun in Heaven – and Kralel relaxed a little.

He was always, just a tiny bit, scared of Gabriel. Of all the Archangels, really. He remembered the War, and he had been … close. Close to Falling. He didn’t like to think of it that way, didn’t like to think about it at all, but there was the thought, always bubbling at the back of his mind. He’d listened to Lucifer, and thought he had some points, some dazzling ideas… Lucifer had spotted his face in the crowd, shining with admiration, and picked him out, of all of them. “What do you think, Kralel? Do you think it’s fair? Do you think we’d be better off on our own?”’

But his courage had run out, and caution had won, and blushing as red as his hair he’d run away. He heard the uproarious laughter than followed him. The worst thing was that he had _agreed_ with so much of what Lucifer and the others were saying. It would have been easier, in the War that followed, if he hadn’t.

He’d confessed all to Gabriel, of course, when he’d first been moved to the Angelic Corruption Unit. Gabriel had praised his honesty. Said that maybe that’s why he’d asked for the transfer from Construction. He saw the damage corruption could do, and wanted to put a stop to it.

That was typical Gabriel. Seeing the very best in everyone.

The truth was that Kralel had been bored.

“I’ve been looking over the files from the last quarter millennium,” Gabriel said, and pointed his finger. “And _you_, Kralel, you’ve been doing absolutely stellar work, as always. Stellar, get it? As you used to work with the Nebulas?”

“Yes – brilliant one, sir,” Kralel said. He was sincere. He was _sure_ he was being sincere.

“So good, in fact, I've been thinking about a promotion. Now, you’re great at the interrogation stuff up here. Absolute natural. But I know you, hmm? You want something a bit more hands-on. A bit more exciting, eh?”

Kralel beamed. Gabriel _did_ know him; he knew him and accepted him, and wanted to him to reach his potential. Sometimes he felt a strange wistfulness, an odd feeling that he was in the wrong place, that there was something more elsewhere, but in that moment he felt like the luckiest angel in Heaven. “You’re right, sir, as always. Wherever you want to put me, I’m ready to go.”

“I knew it, sport!” Gabriel said, grinning back proudly. “Now, before Interrogation, you spent a spell in Earth Surveillance, right? What years?”

“Oh, in Earth terms – 1000 to 1500 AD.” It had been excruciatingly boring. They did stretches of a century in various places. He’d been watching Europe during the 1300s, and he could not have imagined a grimmer existence.

“Marvellous. Pretty much up-to-date then!” Gabriel looked even more excited. “So. What do you say to going undercover?”

“No!” Kralel jumped up from the stool in his excitement. “Really? Seriously?”

“Seriously! We’ve not needed a UCO for ages but as soon as I got this brief I knew _exactly_ who I wanted. What do you say?”

This was it. _This_ was what he’d transferred to Angelic Corruption for. He’d put in the transfer request right after the Watchers fell, a few centuries after the creation of the Earth. He’d always regretted not asking for one sooner – if he had, he might have been one of the ones to bring them Down. Vanity, he knew, but… a little vanity couldn’t hurt, could it? He could have caught them in the act – well, hopefully not the _act_ act, you know - work out exactly which technological secrets they’d been sharing with their wives and kids. He’d imagined himself giving evidence in the Judgement Theatre, pointing his finger accusingly at Semiaza. In the last five thousand years there’d not been any real corruption. No big crimes, no big trials. He’d spent five thousand years grilling angels for misquoting _The Sound of Music _or gambling for ambrosia rations. He was good at it. Gabriel said that as he seemed to be a natural question-asker, the best place for him was as an interrogator. But undercover work… dangerous, but _oh_, thrilling! “Of course! Sir, this is- I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t! Now, sit, sit. Tell me what you know about the principality Aziraphale.”

Kralel gave a kind of shocked laugh. _Everyone_ knew about Aziraphale. He’d originally been a cherub, set to guard Eden. He’d been too soft on the new humans, or not vigilant enough, and after a few decades of bliss they’d tricked him into leaving the Tree of Knowledge unguarded and eaten from it. Humanity had Fallen, and become mortal. They’d been kicked out of Eden, and Aziraphale had been summoned to explain his mistake before the assembled Hosts of Heaven. “Well, you know. Fall of Man.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Right, right. Demoted.”

“Yup, I was there for that – brought us all in from Andromeda to watch.”

Aziraphale had not Fallen. It had been an important piece of information for all the angels, and particularly for Angelic Corruption. They made all new transfers write a report on it. Aziraphale had not rebelled against God, and so didn’t Fall. But no one knew what happened to an angel who _made mistakes_. Angels were perfect. If they weren’t perfect, they Fell and became demons. It was very simple. They had been created by Perfection Herself to be perfect.

And yet, here was Aziraphale. Very obviously imperfect. And still an angel.

Deep down, Kralel suspected the Archangels had hoped he would Fall. Then they could wash their hands of him, and he wouldn’t be a blot on anyone’s record. As it was, they’d demoted him to the Principalities instead. This had involved cutting off his lion head, his ox head, and his eagle head, leaving humanity as his only responsibility in an ironic punishment. That had been bad enough. Kralel had screamed with the rest of the ten million angels at the sight of the beheadings, but at least they were quick.

The problem was that cherubs had four wings. Principalities had two. Two would have to go.

Aziraphale had wept and begged, howling in agony. Kralel had looked around, but the idea of speaking up to beg for justice for the disgraced angel was… impossible. After all, _this_ was justice. Divinely ordained Justice. They were learning very quickly that the rules were now different. They were At War.

Aziraphale’s wings had been sawn off. Kralel hated to think of it, but the lingering horror had remained. Aziraphale was a figure of fascination. No one had been demoted since; no one wanted to be another Aziraphale. The angel himself had been booted down to Earth, to try to atone for his failure to protect humanity from themselves, and had been there ever since. The only one, for long stretches of time, and certainly the angel who’d been there for the longest time. Whenever he was discorporated, he was just given another body and sent down again.

Kralel, like every other angel he’d mentioned it to, was relieved. Imagine if he’d been there in Heaven. Walking around. Reminding everyone about his disgrace, and their horror as they had watched.

No, Kralel was glad the infamous Aziraphale was on Earth. Out of sight, out of mind. It left the rest of Heaven to get on with the important stuff without any awkwardness.

He’d seen him in person only one other time. “And there was the trial of the Watchers, of course.”

“Right, right. Yes. Horrible business,” Gabriel said. “Still. Found innocent that time.”

“Yes, yeah.”

A little under a thousand years after the demotion, Aziraphale had been summoned back to the Judgement Theatre, along with every other angel who’d been on Earth at the time. Again, all ten million angels watched from the cavea, Kralel among them.

Two hundred angels stood to the side in chains; everyone already knew their crimes. They’d descended to Earth and taken human women for their wives, willing or unwilling. The Earth was covered with their monstrous offspring, eating flesh, drinking blood. The angels, the Watchers, had set themselves up as kings and princes on the Earth. They would Fall.

The question was whether Aziraphale had been one of them.

There were six angels whose whereabouts and activities were unaccounted for. Raziel, Lord of Secrets, stepped forward, and reached into the essence of each of the six. The charge: sex with a mortal physical being. The evidence of it would be in their essence and their physical bodies, and Raziel roughly examined both for each of the accused. Two were sent to join the Watchers. Four, Aziraphale among them, had been found innocent.

These four had huddled at the very edge of the amphitheatre’s arena, clutching their heads, keening and moaning. One of them was sobbing, but not Aziraphale; of all of them, Aziraphale was the most still. He held the weeping angel and watched, face white and blank. Semiaza had been screaming curses at them all even as the floor under the Watchers vanished, and they Fell.

Afterwards, Gabriel had announced that a great flood was being sent over the Earth, to rid it of the Nephilim, and of the humans that the Watchers had corrupted with knowledge and violence. That had been when Kralel had put in his transfer request.

“Innocent _that_ time,” Gabriel said again, with new emphasis. “But his reports have been… a little off, recently. Last century or so. Hastur has been clocking in victory after victory for the other side, while Aziraphale’s reports get shorter and shorter. Makes you wonder.”

“Whether he’s working for the other side?” Kralel said. He picked up the files on Gabriel’s desk. “I’ve not seen figures like this since the fourteenth century…”

“Exactly. Now, Hastur’s claiming all these as personal victories. Aziraphale’s telling _us_ that it’s all the humans, free will, ecetera. _Obviously_ it’s more likely that the demon’s the one who’s lying. Any other angel… But. Even if Aziraphale _is_ telling the truth, he’s not doing the best job down there, is he? Reports getting shorter and shorter. Fewer and fewer big ticket things. He went a full fourteen times over his healing quota in the 1980s and we gave him a rap on the knuckles. And since then things down there just keep getting worse again. He never checks in unless we remind him his next report’s due. But surveillance’s come up short. That’s where you come in. Observation on the ground.”

“If he is corrupt? Do I…what, _arrest_ him?”

“No, God, no! No, purely observational. Regular reports to me on everything you learn. When we have enough evidence, we’ll bring him on ourselves. No, you’re not to risk yourself at all. If he is dangerous, then you’ll be on his turf. You’ve never had a corporeal form before?”

“No, never.”

“Right. Well, we’ll get you fitted up, and we’ll head down.”

Kralel gaped. “_Now_?”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh, no. No, sir, of course not. I’ve just never had a corporation before – I don’t know how to operate it.”

“Hmm,” Gabriel said. “All right. They can be tricky when you first get them. Tell you what. We’ll get you fitted up now, and overnight you can read the files. We’ve got some educational videos about current life on earth; you can give them a watch as you settle in, and we’ll go down first thing in the morning.”

If Kralel had a heart, it would have been pounding. “Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's angelic name, Kralel, roughly means "bow, submit, kneel to God". In the book and series, I imagined this being twisted phonetically and semantically to Crawly, and thence Crowley. 
> 
> Aziraphale's demotion is based on the fact that in Genesis 3:24 God “drove out the man; and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim, and a sword flaming and turning to guard the way to the tree of life.” By the time of the book, “Technically Aziraphale was a Principality, but people made jokes about that these days.” The cherubim have four wings: “two wings of every one were joined one to another, and two covered their bodies” (Ezekiel 1:11). I write more about Aziraphale's demotion in my fic 'The Strong Tower', particularly in Chapter 5.
> 
> The Nephilim and the Watchers are what Genesis 6:1-4 is about, and the story is found in more detail in the Book of Enoch.


	2. Chapter 2

In person, humans were overwhelming. Sometimes Aziraphale was distracted by the way they smelt, or a twist of skin, or a stray hair. When they spoke, in terms of processing and understanding, his brain felt half a syllable behind them; it always caused no small measure of stress and strain. Even worse than the physical senses was the psychic sense: they pressed on him, a thousand human sensations, and a thousand thousand emotions. He could feel their needs and desires and fears as though they were crowding around him, choking him. He loved them, of course, but they exhausted him too.

It had been similar in Heaven, strangely. He had always felt one step out of alignment. Now he was still one step out, in the other direction. He was a grain of sand in the Swiss watch of the universe, wherever he was.

The only exception was when he read humans, instead of listened to them. Their words had been brought together slowly. They had percolated. He could take his time, without all the psychic and physical distractions like pressure on his chest. The outside world faded away, and he experienced communion with humanity. The very best and worst of them, set out in a way he could understand. He could sink into conversation with them, and the love he felt was all the deeper for being less desperate.

_… besotted by this blind zeal, which is religion’s ape, religion’s bastard, religion’s shadow, false glass. For where God hath a temple, the devil will have a chapel: where God hath sacrifices, the devil will have his oblations: where God hath ceremonies, the devil will have his traditions…_

Aziraphale sighed, and closed the book. He didn’t bother to mark his page; it was always the same section that exhausted him. Rather too on the nose for his tired heart this morning.

For morning it was; the sky was dove grey, all of a sudden. He turned off the lamp. Still, to what conclusion did Burton come? _Be not solitary, be not idle_. Brewed Awakening over the road would open at six, and the grandfather clock told him he only had to kill a few minutes.

He picked up the sharps box as he went out the back door of the shop, and cleared the alleyway. Only two, so a quiet night. When the box was safely inside again he crossed the road. They couldn’t tempt him with tea – he had a tea collection specialists would murder to raid – but they had a machine and little whizzer things to make the milk all frothy, so a mochaccino and a slice of whatever looked particularly tempting.

“You’re up early, Mr Fell,” said Hannah, smiling at him. He was the first customer, even in Soho.

“Or late. I’ve been out on the town, can you not tell?” he said, and wiggled in a particularly ridiculous imitation of dancing. Hannah gave him the laugh he had hoped for, and he smiled for the first time that morning.

“I swear to god, I can never work out what hours you keep.”

“Ah, well, sometimes I read through. Or work, if a client wants something done urgently. Though antique book repairs are rarely urgent. It does happen, though. Usually before they’re about to be auctioned. I think I’ll have a mochaccino, my dear, and, um, hm.”

“I did the cherry meringue.”

“Then how could I choose anything but the cherry meringue? And a cup of something for Jose, if he comes in.”

“Jose? Oh, Cunty Man. Sorry, Mr Fell, he’s banned. Kept calling us all ‘cunts’.”

“Ah, yes, he will do that. Well, send him over to me, if he’s in one of his moods.”

“Oh, are you cunt-exempt? High praise.”

“Not at all, I’m a c-word with the best of them, but I have more time to be called one while I make a cup of tea.”

“You’re an angel,” Hannah said, and handed over the meringue. “Mochaccino will be two ticks, machine’s still making up its mind.”

“The malevolent creature,” said Aziraphale, and handed over the exact change plus a fiver.

The mochaccino helped; the chocolate, more than the coffee. Aziraphale was slightly regretting the cherry meringue. Something creamy and chocolatey would have been better. He went in through the front of the bookshop, not bothering to flick the sign yet, and raised the cup to his lips again.

He swallowed a vast mouthful of boiling coffee and burnt his tongue. He also dropped the meringue, though Gabriel halted its fall with a gesture, and it travelled back to Aziraphale’s hand.

“Gabhwiel!” he said, and healed his tongue. “Gabriel, so sorry. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Gabriel stood in his (locked, certainly locked) bookshop. He wore a powder blue cashmere turtleneck and an exquisite suit in dove grey. Wearing exactly the same outfit was a thin angel whom Aziraphale didn’t recognise. Both were over six foot, of course, the… so-and-sos, but there the resemblance ended. Where Gabriel was broad this angel was narrow, all lines and angles, with gold eyes and auburn hair. “And, um…?”

“This is Kralel,” Gabriel said, and pointed to the coffee. “Did you just imbibe that?”

“Yes – well, yes. I was surprised when I saw you. I was only intending to sip it, for the benefit of… I had to go across to the coffee shop, to discuss one of the regulars on this street-”

“Right,” Gabriel said. “Well. I can’t stay long, but, I bring good news!” He held out his hands, and grinned, and Aziraphale remembered a second too late that he was meant to find this amusing.

“Ah,” he said, and managed a smile, if not a laugh. “It never gets old.”

“It does not. So! Good news. I know things have been _a lot_ over the last century, so. We thought that you would appreciate a helping hand. Kralel’s here to learn the ropes and help you with your duties here.”

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped to his knees. He felt sick.

Kipling had been very wrong when he wrote that only humans _abide the twin damnation, to fail and know we fail._ Aziraphale was a rather rubbish angel. Earth deserved better. And Aziraphale knew it. More things in Heaven and Hell, etc., etc.

Kipling hadn’t thought of the damned triplet: for _others_ to know we fail. Aziraphale had no illusions about what Heaven thought of him: he knew they tittered or sighed over his reports, spoke to him in anger or contempt whenever he was discorporated. His main value to Heaven, he thought, was an example of what _not_ to do. His role was to be used to demonstrate that leniency was no longer an option now that there was an Opposition, and then be exiled down to Earth where nothing important happened and he couldn’t mess things up too badly.

Since his demotion, his strategy had been to keep his head down and his nose clean. If he was quiet and made as few waves as possible, he might be ignored. Escape notice. If he was quiet and didn’t make a fuss, Gabriel and the others could find some other scapegoat for whatever was currently going wrong for them.

He’d managed to get away with it – with the crime of being who he was – but that had been under passive surveillance. This would be some perfect angel, unstained by the world, watching him every minute and judging him. It hadn’t worked.

“Oh – oh, that’s so kind. So thoughtful. But I really don’t think I’m the best-“

“Nonsense! Who’s been here longer than you? You’re the expert!” Gabriel said, with that wide shark’s smile.

“But surely a period for a beginner – tossing poor Kralel here into the deep end from the very-“

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve had him watch the educational videos.”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale said, before he could stop himself.

“Besides, best way to learn how to swim, hm? Or fly. Toss the bird out of the nest!” Even Kralel looked a little perturbed by this.

“Perhaps I could come up once a week – do classes, if you want more angels with Earth experience-“

Gabriel couldn’t let him finish _one blessed sentence_. “No, no, no – no, we need you here! No one knows Hastur as well as you do! Don’t worry, Kralel’s one of our best. Very sharp. He’ll pick it up in no time.” Gabriel grinned at both of them, and smoothed his immaculate suit. “Right. Good luck, you two – God’s blessings on all your endeavours!”

There was a flash of light, and the Archangel was gone. Aziraphale glared at _Kralel_ with barely disguised anger.

No. It wasn’t his fault. Gabriel ran roughshod over everyone. Kralel must be as nervous as him about this assignment, albeit for very different reasons. “You’d best come in, then,” he said, even though Kralel was already inside, and went through to the kitchenette. No point in having coffee now. He was going to be jittery enough anyway. He needed something calming. Camomile, despite the early hour. And some chocolate.

Kralel followed him through, looking at everything. He had to be kind. To be charitable. Kralel would probably be overwhelmed by the sheer number of material objects. Aziraphale bit sharply on the inside of his cheek until the pain had cleared his head a little, and held out his hand towards the Chesterfield sofa. “Sit down there. I’ll be a minute.”

He flicked on the electric kettle, and closed his eyes while it boiled. He was so tired. God, so tired. What was he going to do? The only thing that made existence bearable was a locked door and silence. Now even that had been poisoned. What had he done recently, that She’d want to punish him like this? He didn’t know.

He dropped a camomile teabag into his mug (“Hay-on-Wye 1998”) and poured in the water. Kralel was still perched on the edge of the sofa. Of course… “You can sit back, if it’s more comfortable,” he said. “Humans tend to use chairs with backs as much as stools. It won’t hurt your wings.”

Kralel shifted back suspiciously. Aziraphale attacked the teabag with a spoon, more for the small feeling of some control over his life. “Where were you before here?”

“Earth surveillance,” said Kralel. “Before that I was in Construction.”

“Oh, excellent. Excellent. Earth surveillance will help.” He bit into the meringue, and regretted it. “Urgh. Well. I’m Aziraphale. In England we tend to shake hands when we are introduced… Have you seen that?”

Kralel nodded and held out his hand. “Yes, precisely,” Aziraphale said, and took it. He gave it a single, brisk shake. “There.”

“What does it signify?”

“Oh, just… general well-meaning. It shows you don’t have a weapon in your dominant hand, usually. It used to be kissing – kissing’s coming in again, but on the cheeks, rather than the lips…” There was so much Kralel didn’t know.

It was half past six in the morning, and Aziraphale felt so tired he could weep.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale was leant back in his chair as though he didn’t even think of his wings, and abandoned the swirly pink food item. He noticed Kralel’s gaze on it. “All right. Let’s see what you’ve learnt from those blessed videos. Food?”

Kralel nearly rolled his eyes. He could take this tone of voice from an Archangel, but not from the infamous disgrace. “Organic matter which humans consume and transfer into energy.” The textbook answer, delivered with flat sarcasm.

It didn’t seem to perturb Aziraphale at all. “Money?”

“Symbolic capital which can be exchanged for goods or services.”

“Such as?”

“Which one?”

“Services.”

Kralel was brought up short. “Oh. Um. Sex.”

Aziraphale gave a long-suffering sigh. “That’s one, yes, but not one that we generally encourage. Typical that they’d focus on that Upstairs. Take food, for example. A lot of food needs to be cooked and prepared to make it safe. Or to make it more pleasant to eat. Some humans learn how to cook well, and so one service you might pay another human for is for them to cook and prepare your food for you. We might go to a specific establishment, and pay for another human to cook food for us, which we then consume there, in the establishment. That’s called a restaurant.”

Kralel frowned. “Why would we need to go to a restaurant? You don’t need to eat.”

“It’s where many humans go. We need to know how they work. Imagine if we wanted to speak to a human at length. A polite thing to do is to go to a restaurant, and eat a meal together while we talk. Humans are always more vulnerable when attending to their physical needs. The shared vulnerability creates an atmosphere more conducive to conversation.”

“But you consume food even when there are no humans present.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale didn’t explain himself. “And so will you, if you’re going to commit to this,” he added. He went into a smaller room, and returned a second later, carrying a glass of water. “Best to practice with this. Water. Relatively tasteless, no bumps or anything.”

Kralel looked at it in horror, and tried to put the moment off. “Why is it eating that’s conducive to conversation?”

“Most humans prefer to keep their defecation and urination relatively private. Not always – plenty of business discussed in the toilets in Rome.”

“Did you… defecate with them?”

“No!” Aziraphale looked disgusted. “I have _standards_. No, I don’t defecate. Or urinate. Urgh.”

“But if you eat and drink, aren’t those processes … part and parcel?”

“For a human, yes – I convert any of the leftovers the corporation doesn’t want into energy.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers: there was a _whompf_ as his hand was suddenly encased in fire, and then the fire was gone. A slight scent of roses lingered. “See? Far tidier.”

Kralel watched it with vague disgust, and looked back suspiciously. “That wasn’t on any of the videos.”

“I developed it. Honestly, I’ve been submitting reports to the Research Unit for thousands of years… But of course no one’s read them. Of course. I don’t even know why I’m surprised anymore.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, and then fished a small item out of his ceramic goblet-thing. He dropped it into a small basket at his feet.

“What’s that?”

“This? This is tea. Tea in a mug. Well, a tisane, technically, but in England people will call it tea anyway.”

“I thought tea was a drink made from steeping _Camellia sinensis_ leaves in hot water?”

This elicited the first small smile from Aziraphale. “That’s right. That’s right. A tisane is made from other herbs or flowers. This is camomile. Do you like plants?”

“I’ve not seen any. Not in person – just in surveillance.”

“They’re much, much better in person. Let’s walk to a park later, and you can see them,” Aziraphale said. His voice was a little less harsh. He drank a mouthful of his tisane. “Before we do that, though, we need to talk about clothes. This –“ He waved his hand up and down to indicate Kralel’s costume. “This is all wrong.”

“Gabriel picked it out,” Kralel said censoriously.

Aziraphale _snorted_. “I could tell.”

“This is what's advertised as fashionable in current human publications! He said _you_ wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Oh, I know enough,” Aziraphale said acidly. “Well. Is that the impression of a human that you want to give? Someone who has a lot of money, and wears things that appear in magazines but not in shops?”

Kralel frowned, sensing a trap. He didn’t understand the second part of the question, so focused on the first. “Rich humans have influence.”

“They do, yes. Other humans also resent them. Fear them. Admire them. Envy them. That’s a lot of heady emotions you’re evoking without even speaking to them. You’re more likely to be robbed. And people are far less likely to listen to you if you want to go around telling them to do good and love their neighbour. You look like an investment banker.”

“Which is bad.”

“Which is very bad! Exactly the sort of thing we’re meant to be against! It doesn’t even _suit_ you. It suits _Gabriel_. So that means you’re either someone who just buys whatever a magazine tells him to buy, which makes you look stupid, or you’re trying to be something you aren’t, which makes you look insincere.”

“I _am_ trying to be something I’m not,” Kralel finally snapped. He might be a relative rookie when it came to the Earth arena, but he’d be _damned_ before he let the famous failure Aziraphale talk to him like he was better than him. “And what do _you _look like?” He looked up and down the clothing Aziraphale had clad his corporation in. Soft browns and blues, mostly, with some scant glitters of gold.

“I look harmless,” Aziraphale said with hesitation. “I look affluent, without being filthy rich. I look intellectual, if out of touch. I look old-fashioned. I certainly don’t look like someone who cares about fashion magazines. I look gay.”

“Gay?”

“Homosexual. I look like a homosexual.”

“Why’d you want to look like a homosexual?”

Aziraphale _stared_ at him. “Plenty of reasons. Maybe I just enjoy it. Maybe I feel it’s _me_.”

Kralel stared right back at him. Aziraphale went pink, and to hide it he stood up, fluttering around the small chamber. “You don’t understand. Of course you don’t. Look, just tell Gabriel it’s to make women trust me and men dismiss me.”

If Kralel had known more swear words, this was where he would have thought _shit_. His corporation seemed to do its own version of swearing: it felt very cold, then very hot. This undercover stuff was harder than it seemed. “Why would I tell Gabriel?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and stopped his pacing. “I assume you’re reporting back on me to him? That that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“No,” Kralel said, and it sank into him like a drop of poison into clear water. His first true lie. The others had been lies of omission, but this was bald-faced dishonesty. “I’m here to learn from you.” It wasn’t _untrue_, but the damage had already been done. The deceit tasted metallic.

“Oh. Well. My apologies.” He hadn’t expected it to be _galling_ when Aziraphale believed him. He'd thought he’d feel satisfied, and triumphant. Instead he felt a strange, squirming feeling deep in his essence that he hadn’t felt for a very, very long time. Aziraphale sat back in his chair again, and sipped from his _mug_. “Well. You might want to present yourself as homosexual as well, actually. Humans notice when people are unusual in some way. They sense that we’re different. That we don’t share all the priorities of the greater mass of humanity. That we walk about the world on other business. Due to the humans’ prejudice, in many societies and times it was homosexuals who had to keep an aspect of their divine nature secret, and so if they see us as gay then they assume that that’s our only secret.”

This was more difficult than tea. “It’s… very complicated.”

“Yes, it is. It’s called ‘dissimulation’. It’s one of our major jobs, down here. But many people – humans especially – prefer an easy answer. If you present them with one, most are content to assume that it’s the whole truth. If a demon’s torturing you, you don’t concentrate on what you refuse to say, because if it’s at the forefront of your mind it’s on the tip of your tongue as well. You have an answer already prepared, just waiting to be given.”

Kralel stared at him, wide-eyed. Aziraphale looked… small. Fussy. Soft. The only other times Kralel had seen him were when he’d be screaming, begging, at his demotion. During the affair with the Nephilim he’d been white-faced and silent. And here he was, only a few millennia later, talking about being tortured by demons as though it was _de rigeur_. “Have… you been tortured by a demon?”

“Of course. Quite a few times. Less so recently, I’ve grown wise to him. My counterpart on Earth, Duke Hastur – he’s very fond of it.”

Kralel’s jaw had fallen open without him knowing it. Did bodies often do this? React without conscious thought? “Do you torture _him_?”

Aziraphale looked outraged. “Of course I don’t!” he snapped. “Torture is _evil_. Angels can never torture. No, I just discorporate him, if I have to. That’s another major thing to remember, Kralel. We might be more powerful than a lot of them, but we have to operate within far more limitations.”

Kralel’s head was beginning to hurt. It sounded like life on Earth was far more complicated than he’d been led to believe. He’d been here for fewer than ten minutes and he’d already _lied_, for Heaven’s sake. Even if it was for Heaven’s sake.

“Anyway. Back to the subject. Normally, I buy clothes. We live in a society, after all. But I absolutely cannot face the thought of bringing you to the shops while you’re so green. So inexperienced,” he said, seeing the confusion on Kralel’s face. “If we were to go to my usual man, God knows what he’d think. Probably that you were my boy.”

Kralel tried to parse this. “Your son?”

“Oh, for God’s- No, my lover! Which is preposterous, and to be perfectly honest I think we look about the same age. Earth’s just hell on the skin. You don’t even _know_ about UV rays. And you have to use currency – did Gabriel even give you money?”

He patted his pockets, knowing perfectly well that Gabriel hadn’t. He shook his head.

“Of course not. Of course not! Right. You just sit right there, and don’t move. I’ll be back in five minutes. I’ll buy a magazine, and you can pick something out of there that you like.”

“That I _like_?” Kralel said, with audible contempt and scepticism.

Aziraphale blinked, so he obviously heard it. But he stared back just as brazenly. “That you _like_. You’re going to have to develop some opinions and tastes beyond whatever _Gabriel_ tells you to enjoy.”

Kralel watched him leave the shop, feeling unaccountably flustered. Unaccountably _annoyed_. Liking whatever his boss told him to like was a good thing. It _was_. It showed he was obedient, suitably reverent. If Aziraphale were a decent angel he’d know that, and respect it.

No. The entire reason he was here was to prove that Aziraphale was _not_ a decent angel. It shouldn’t surprise him in the least that Aziraphale would think that conformity was a bad thing.

But deep down, in a long-repressed, almost-forgotten part of himself, something in his essence surged up to agree with him.


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale came back five minutes later armed with a magazine. He pointed out a few outfits he thought stylish, and even Kralel, who hadn’t yet been on Earth an hour, turned his nose up at them.

“Hmm,” he said, his eyes lingering on a black suit. The flash of the white shirt underneath it made him think of space – the contrast of light and dark. But he’d never seen an angel wearing black. Could they wear black? Was it allowed?

Aziraphale saw what he was lingering on. “Ah, now that… That would work well, actually. Black would suit your hair colour. And you’d look slightly more intimidating.”

Kralel raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you said we shouldn’t look intimidating?”

Aziraphale smirked back. “_I _shouldn’t look intimidating, because I can actually take care of myself. You can’t, so you should look like you can instead. A human writer called Sun Tzu wrote about it. _Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak_. I sent a copy Up, but… Obviously no one’s read that, either. Anyway.” Aziraphale pulled the power down from Heaven, and suddenly Kralel was dressed in the black and white. “How does that feel?”

“It feels…” Less warm, than the jumper Gabriel had picked. He preferred it. God, an opinion already. Worrying. “Whatever. Feels fine.”

“Good. Right. We’re going to go out into the street. At least you can walk and talk, I suppose. What languages did they give you?”

“Um, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. And English.”

“How useful. Right, well, we’ll use Latin when we need to. Least likely for someone around to listen in.” Aziraphale held the door open, and Kralel was assaulted by the overwhelming noise and colour. Aziraphale stood beside him, and began. “This is a street. Look at the ground. These upper bits are called pavements, and the lower bit is called the road. You walk on the pavement. The road is for cars and for bikes. That one is a car, and that one is a bike. If you see a bike on the pavement that’s illegal. But smiting is going too far. Most of the time. Now, if you get hit by a bike, it’ll hurt a lot, but if you get hit by a car, you’re more likely than not to be discorporated. You don’t know how to fall or anything.”

Kralel looked down at him in shocked offence. The sights and sounds and smells of early morning London pressed on him in a riot. “I’d hope not!”

“No, I mean, when humans are babies their bodies learn how to fall without damaging themselves too much. They’re very fragile. You’re walking around like an astronaut on a space-walk… Right. We’re going to walk down the street. There’s a shop I want us to go to. I’ve managed to put off buying a television for sixty years but it’ll be the best thing for you to watch the news, listen to how humans speak, that kind of thing.” There was a small pile of excrement on the pavement in front of them, which Aziraphale vanished with a gesture. The press of human bodies, with their smells and their voices and their thoughts brushing past him… Kralel felt strangely dizzy.

Aziraphale was still talking. “When we’re inside the shop, I’ll talk to the person behind the counter, and exchange some notes – pieces of paper, that symbolise money – and buy something. Can you remember that?”

Not wanting to lie again, Kralel said, “No.” He blinked, and tried to force his body to step forward.

“Are you even _trying_? … Kralel? Oh, my dear, come, come here.”

Aziraphale manhandled his body through the mass of humans, crossing a road and turning a corner, and then down onto another kind of _chair_, with a back that touched his own. The people still moved, but they were slightly apart. As his head cleared, so, it felt, did the space around them. Kralel blinked again, and the world came back into focus. There were… He could see trees. Grass. He had never seen them before. He hadn’t known they smelt – he hadn’t known how they _moved_. And the _colour_ – he knew that this was _green_, but from Heaven it had never seemed so bright, so vibrant.

“I could kill Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, and Kralel faintly wondered whether this was something he ought to report. He turned his head, and looked at Aziraphale. “Putting you down in the middle of London – and you’ve never been on Earth before?”

Kralel shook his head.

“Well. I’m sorry, my dear. I think I’ve pushed too hard. I wasn’t expecting you, you know,” Aziraphale said. Kralel looked into his face, and from the outside, he could easily recognise his expression as indicating _guilt_.

“S’all right.”

“No, it isn’t. I was surprised, and upset, and unprepared. It made me unempathetic. We’ll take things more slowly, now. This is as good a place as any, I suppose. It’s called Soho Square.”

Kralel swallowed an odd acidic taste in his mouth, and looked around. “Those are trees.”

“Yes. Yes. I’ve always loved trees.”

“I knew about _green_, but…” He pointed to a small rainbow by Aziraphale’s feet. “What are they? They’re flowers, right?”

“Yes – petunias.” Aziraphale bent over and plucked one. He handed it to Kralel.

Its petals were white. Like… velvet made of ground pearls. The shimmer, and the softness. And through every petal a pure, bright purple veined from the centre of the flower, with such delicacy that Kralel, who had constructed nebulae, had never imagined. Its leaves, too, were green, viridian veins in which he could feel sunlight and air and water. The perfect amalgamation of each element.

He could feel the life in it. He wished desperately that Aziraphale hadn’t picked it.

Aziraphale took it from his hand, and showed him a little hole in the flap of his black jacket. “It’s a buttonhole. So you can wear a flower… like so. Beautiful.”

“But now it’ll die,” Kralel said.

“Yes.” Aziraphale didn’t seem pleased or upset. It was just a fact to him.

And Kralel, in the midst of his regret that the flower had been plucked, also felt pleased that it adorned him, and that he could look down and see something beautiful. Selfishness, blooming as a flower slowly died.

And then, in a new voice, Aziraphale began to speak. He spoke about the square – what a square was, when humans had started using them, squares he had known. The first cities. He pointed out the trees, and said that most of them were London planes. _Platanus x hispanica_, in Latin. That meant Spanish plane, and in Paris they weren’t called London planes, obviously, just planes. They were deciduous, which meant that soon their leaves would turn orange and yellow and brown, and fall off. He’d take Kralel back to see the leaves falling. It turned out he had Opinions about lawns, and Kralel heard at length about the morality of various kinds of lawns (lawns in squares like this, in the centre of cities, were acceptable, because people in the city still needed somewhere to be barefoot on the earth, and a lawn was good for that – right up to something called a golf course, which was Evil, apparently).

One of Aziraphale’s favourite things in the world was the bench. The bench was the thing he was proudest of. They were sitting on a bench, which was a seat, usually wooden, for two or three people at a pinch, set down in public for anyone to sit on, for however long they wanted. Benches, said Aziraphale, told them that beneath the greed and selfishness, humans could be kind and civilised people at heart. Benches proved this, as did public parks, and public gardens. Wherever he found a public garden, said Aziraphale, he had found a holy place.

Kralel pointed out a group of teenage boys who thought they were being discreet in passing something between them.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said. “What they’re doing is illegal – it’s called a ‘spliff’, my dear boy, in case you were wondering – but they don’t intend to harm each other, or anyone else. Frankly, with the street hash they’d be able to afford, they’ll not even be able to ‘get high’, as they call it. No, they leave school together, and do something dangerous. It’s the feeling of camaraderie and daring that makes it attractive. Breaking rules _together_. Many adolescents need to do it. It’s not holy, necessarily, but it’s not evil either. It’s just human.”

This sounded, to Kralel, suspiciously similar to what Lucifer and the others had Fallen for. Breaking rules together. “And if they’re caught?”

“It depends who by. If it’s the police, hopefully they’ll be let off with a warning. Maybe they’ll be brought to their parents. I hope they wouldn’t have anything permanent on their record. Mistakes should be forgiven.”

“Among humans, maybe,” Kralel said sharply. “Not among angels.”

Aziraphale gave him a sidewards glance, but didn’t say anything.

Instead he returned to the subject of benches, and invited him to read a small piece of bronze on the back of theirs. Humans sometimes buy and dedicate benches to someone who has died, he said. This one was for a singer, who sang about this place. She had died pushing her teenage son, like the boys across the square, out of the way of a speedboat, and had been killed instantly in saving his life.

_One day I'll be waiting there _

_No empty bench in Soho Square_

It was noon by the time they got up again. Kralel now felt he had been very well educated about public parks, pigeons, and the deficiencies of the local council. He still felt the vast press of humanity, but it had dulled a little, to a kind of background hum.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was unrelenting. First they went into a shop to buy the _television_, and then into a shop full of brightly coloured screaming plastic things that were apparently toys for children. Aziraphale had brought a toy: a hollow piece of neon green plastic shaped like a gun. He made Kralel carry the television back to the bookshop, with repeated orders not to drop the damned thing.

Despite being Heaven’s greatest Earth expert, Aziraphale knew nothing about how a television worked beyond plugging it in; however, being an angel, this was all that was necessary for him to pick up Freeview.* “Some of these are fictional – humans use this to tell stories to each other,” he reminded Kralel. “Ask me, and I’ll tell you whether something’s fictional or not. If we put it up on the mezzanine level you can watch while I read. I need to find some suitable books – there’s just so much to teach you! I’ll write up a plan.”

[* In six months’ time, when he learns about the television licence, he will have a panic attack.]

“What about the toy?”

“The toy? Oh. It’s a water pistol. You fill it with water, and then you can squirt a little jet of it at your friend. Or at a demon if you think you’re in real danger.”

Kralel stared at him. “You’re going to fill a water pistol with holy water.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “My dear. The only reason that we are safe in this bookshop is because I had a sprinkler system installed. What do you think’s in that?” Kralel gaped. “You do know the rite, don’t you? I always keep some of the salt on me,” Aziraphale added, and showed him a little silver case he kept in his velvet waistcoat.

“But… it’s a controlled substance! You can’t just make holy water!”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “You make normal water holy.”

“No, I mean, you need permission!”

“Why?” Aziraphale gave him a _look_. “Maybe in _Heaven_, but I can’t imagine you need much of the stuff up there. Humans can make holy water too. I’m on Earth, so… If God didn’t want the water to become holy it wouldn’t, would it?”

“But…” Kralel said, desperately ransacking his brain for arguments.

“It sounds like one of those rules that exists for the sake of existing,” Aziraphale said. “Hastur needed to know that the bookshop was Off-Limits. I needed _something_. I needed _somewhere_. And you’ll carry that water pistol. If we did actually obliterate Hastur it’d probably cause a diplomatic incident which we don’t need, but if someone is going to be obliterated I’d rather him than you, do you see?”

Worryingly, Kralel did.

They were distracted from the water pistol by a tanned man wearing a torn neon pink vest, a knitted woolly hat, and bearing an enormous beard of grey, wiry hair. “Fucking cunts. Fucking bitches. Cunts. Don’t like them.”

“Ah, Jose, hello,” said Aziraphale. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes please, vicar,” said Jose, suddenly cordial. He looked at Kralel, and his face darkened. “Stupid cunt.”

“Jose, you know my rules!” Aziraphale called from the kitchenette. “No c-word!”

“Bitches.”

“That’s fine. We can compromise on that,” Aziraphale said. “Kralel, come and watch how to make a cup of tea. I have a new assistant, Jose!”

“Vicar?” Kralel asked under his breath.

“I suspect any unmarried man who makes him a cup of tea is addressed as ‘vicar’,” said Aziraphale. “I know it drives Father Matthew up in St. Patrick’s round the twist. So, press this button here, when the kettle is full of water. Jose, five or six sugars?”

“Six. Stupid cunts won’t let me in. Don’t like them.”

“It’s because you keep calling them the c-word. How’s the cricket?”

A light came on behind Jose’s eyes. He suddenly spoke what Kralel thought must be a foreign language, but Aziraphale nodded as he poured water over a teabag, took it out, and stirred in six spoonfuls of sugar. “Kralel, that white box there is called a fridge; there’s a bottle of milk in there.”

Once the milk had been added, Aziraphale walked across the shop, and handed Jose the mug. “Thanks, vicar,” he said, and immediately walked out.

Kralel stared after him. “He took your mug.”

“I have a flower-pot at the back entrance. He’ll put it in there once he’s finished with it.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Oh, alcohol,” said Aziraphale as he sank into his chair. “Completely pickled his brain. The police arrest him every twelve hours or so, usually for shouting the c-word at people who don’t know him.”

“But…” Kralel glanced at the bookshop door again. “Can anything be done?”

Aziraphale looked at him. “What would you do?”

“Can’t he be cured?”

Aziraphale looked thoughtful. “By a miracle? I’d worry about doing it. I’d have to be… creating, you understand? Creating what he’s lost. Creating those parts of his brain that have gone. And then would he be Jose anymore? Would he have free will? It’s not a cure so much as it is the changing of a person. Sometimes I do heal depression, some mental illness. But ‘curing’ Jose would mean creating new things, rather than…” He trailed off, and leant back in his chair. “We have to be careful, Kralel.”

“So making however much holy water you want to protect your books is fine, but suddenly you have scruples about curing that man?”

“And if by the grace of God I was even _able_ to cure him, what then? What was he like before the alcohol? Why the alcohol in the first place? We’re angels, Kralel. We’re not God. We help people, we don’t change them. We influence them, yes, but we let them choose. How can I cure Jose if I don’t know if he wants to be cured?”

“Surely anyone would want to be cured of something like that? Would want to be able to _think_ again?”

“I don’t know,” was all Aziraphale said, and Kralel threw up his hands in frustration. “And he can think. You heard him talking about the cricket.”

“I don’t know what cricket is.”

Aziraphale laughed bitterly. “So you know everything about Jose and what he wants and what he needs, but you don’t understand the one thing he’s able to talk lucidly about? Maybe you should _learn_ a little before you start trying to give me egg-sucking tips.”

“I don’t know what-“

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale said, and flapped his hand exhaustedly. “What time is it? Christ. Time for a scotch. I’m going out for an hour. Will you be all right here? You can read, or you can watch the television.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful with the books.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“I’m trusting you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Kralel said sarcastically. “Yeah, I’ll be fine!”

“Don’t leave the shop without me.”

“I won’t!”

Aziraphale looked sceptical, but left. Kralel made a face at the closed door.


	5. Chapter 5

Kralel waited for five minutes, until he was sure that Aziraphale wasn’t about to pop back. Then he set to work.

There was a small flat upstairs: bedroom, with a double bed, he made a note of that. Gabriel had told him to look out for that. He went through all the drawers and the wardrobe, but found nothing particularly damning. Books in odd places, and plenty of clothes in pale fabrics.

A very clean bathroom, with a bathtub and a sparkling toilet. A sink was set into a counter. On one side was a selection of glass bottles with metal tops like buttons. He pressed one of these buttons and the bottle sprayed something venomous into his face. It _stung_ and made water come out of his eyes; he eventually cured himself with a miracle, vanished the strange heady scent from himself, and put the poison back. There were several bottles, all containing liquids of slightly different colours, topaz and citrine and quartz.

On the other side, a toothbrush and toothpaste. These had appeared in the educational videos, but ought to have been unnecessary. Next to them was a tray, corralling plastic tubes and pots. A couple of glasses with plastic tops. In them were beige powders, pink and red wax, kohl, tiny brushes… Make-up. Well, well, well. One of the forbidden technologies which the Watchers had given to humanity, and it seemed Aziraphale had taken it up too.

The entire shop was just _full_ of material objects. Brimming. Intricate, decorative boxes in precious metals, things set with precious stones or coloured glass. Gilt everywhere, edging papers, painted onto pieces of furniture. Soft, expensive fabrics. A cabinet full of bottles in the kitchen, which Kralel knew must be kinds of wine and spirits. A fridge in the kitchenette stuffed full of all sorts of food which Aziraphale must eat in private.

This is where he was when he heard the sound of Aziraphale returning; he quickly poured out a glass of water. That’s what Aziraphale had said, after all. Dissimulation. Have an answer ready.

Aziraphale looked a little more cheerful. “Oh, are you ready to try the water?” he said, as he hung his coat up on the curved pieces of wood. “That’s excellent – I’m very proud, my dear. I know you were nervous about it earlier.” He bustled in to join Kralel.

Kralel looked down at the glass. It glistened sinisterly at him. “I really don’t need to. Gabriel never does.”

“He’s never been on Earth for more than a day at a time.” Aziraphale sighed. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Honestly, if it worries you… You still need to learn how to prepare it for other people.”

He should take the out Aziraphale had given him. And yet… The idea that Aziraphale had done something that he and Gabriel hadn’t rankled in him. It made him feel like a coward.

Which was stupid! He didn’t need to eat or drink.

He didn’t _need_ to… But what had Aziraphale said, about the boys in the park. The cameraderie of breaking rules together.

And he found he didn’t want Aziraphale to think he was a wimp.

He picked up the glass, and Aziraphale beamed at him. “So, just raise it to your lips, and pour a tiny bit in. Then try not to think at all – your body will know what to do.”

And lo and behold, it did. The water didn’t… taste, of much. It felt very cool, very liquid. The muscles of his body moved without his direction, and the water vanished down the back of his throat. He could feel a strange coolness flowing down inside his body, and then… nothing.

It felt momentous, in a way that occupying his corporeal form had not. He felt a kind of resentful anger at Aziraphale, for expecting it of him. Gabriel, he knew, would never sully himself with this material engagement. It was one thing to touch and to wear, but now there was something solid and entirely Earthen _inside him_.

And then the resentment just faded away. It was done, and nothing had changed in him. He didn’t _feel_ any different, not in himself. The only difference was that he felt a strange wild pride – the excitement of having done something that he had been scared of. He realised he was grinning at the other angel.

“See?” Aziraphale was smiling. “Nothing to it. Now you don’t have to worry if we go out somewhere. There are lots of other things to taste, really scrumptious things. Why don’t we go to a restaurant? To celebrate your first night on Earth?”

Suddenly, that squirmy feeling was back. “To celebrate?”

“Yes. I know neither of us asked for this, but we should make the best of it. It’s a bit like a birthday,” Aziraphale said. “Besides, I’m hungry. Oh, there’s so much choice – there’s so many places we could go… Let’s get Chinese food. You can start out on rice. And I can have something in oyster sauce. I’ll sort out the water pistol, and we can be off.”

The ritual of the restaurant was fascinating. Everything humans did seemed governed by ritual. Kralel drank water, and had a sip of Aziraphale’s white wine. He disliked the taste, yet immediately wanted more. Aziraphale poured half of his into a glass for him. He ate grains of rice with his fingers; the texture was odd, but it had a subtle flavour. He tried a piece of chicken; the sauce on the outside was too rich, but the flesh itself was pleasant. Aziraphale chatted to the waitress, whom he knew by name, and passed on his wishes to the chef, hoping that his mother was doing better. He explained to Kralel what was what, showed him how to use chopsticks as well as a knife, fork, and spoon.

That night, while Aziraphale sat on his sofa and read, Kralel sent his first report up to Gabriel.

*

It was funny, how quickly one became used to things. How quickly one settled into a routine. Aziraphale, upon finding out that Kralel hadn’t actually read the Bible, immediately started giving him lessons. He also made him read _Watching the English_. In the morning Kralel would join him in going on errands, or around the city, or to one park or another. Most afternoons he made a cup of tea for Jose. At night they’d go to a restaurant, and Kralel would try whatever Aziraphale was eating.

Kralel quickly knew more about television than Aziraphale did. The fact that humans poured so much time and effort and resources into just telling stories to each other astonished him. He couldn’t understand the _point_ of it, but he was still addicted to _Eastenders_.

Aziraphale didn’t entirely trust him yet. He sometimes left the bookshop in the hours after midnight with a crowbar. He didn’t let Kralel come with him on any of the more angelic missions. He said that they were too dangerous, and that Kralel needed to know more about humanity and the world before he could come. 

That wouldn’t take long, he thought, at his current rate. He was soaking up Earth like a sponge. It had turned out that 21st century was very different to the 14th. Kralel _revelled_ in it; now that the first barrier of the glass of water had been breached, he threw himself into human life. He wasn’t even overwhelmed when they walked around the city now; Aziraphale was, he knew, but Kralel could have happily dived into a dozen minds as they went about. Humans were so _funny_; no idea of the real stakes of anything, and yet feeling so deeply about a million tiny problems and distractions. It was dizzying. He liked buskers too – playing music in the street, music like he had never heard before. Celestial harmonies didn’t rely much on percussion. Even if he had needed to sleep, he couldn’t have. He had lived with distant stars for millennia, and now was surrounded by ten thousand suns.

He was beginning to realise that in Heaven he had been starving for something, and now he had been transported into a room in which a banquet had been laid out just for him.

Aziraphale’s fussy, proper little human costume suited him, but it didn’t suit Kralel. He asked why woman had their hair long, and tried it for a couple of days. He noticed that some men wore stubble on their faces, and tried that too.

It was itchy.

Aziraphale still resented his presence, Kralel knew. He was never unkind about it, but he was stiff and quiet in the bookshop. He left for at least an hour a day, and kept his secrets.

It was two weeks before Kralel was able to find out one of these: where Aziraphale went to drink the spirit called whisky. He still wasn’t meant to leave the shop on his own, but every time Aziraphale left Kralel had to use the time to continue his inventory of Aziraphale’s belongings or send another report Upstairs.

“I’m going for a drink,” Aziraphale said as five o’clock rolled around. He looked up at where Kralel was watching television on the mezzanine level. “Want to come?”

Part of him actually wanted to finish watching _Blue Peter_, but that’s not what he was on Earth for. Besides, the outside world was even more exciting than watching a human learn how to waterski, through probably less amusing.

“Where are we going?” as he sauntered down the stairs.

“The Admiral Duncan. It’s a pub,” Aziraphale replied.

“Do I finally get to try scotch?”

“You can have a sip, but let’s see you manage a glass of wine first,” Aziraphale said. “Drinking scotch too soon is a sure-fire way to never appreciate it. Some things you need time to grow accustomed too. Like getting into a hot bath. Oh, you haven’t done that yet either – now that really is marvellous. I can show you the bathroom later if you like.”

Kralel, who had already been over every inch of the bathroom, shoved down the nasty squirmy feeling that was becoming more and more familiar. “Yeah. Cool.”

“I should never have bought you that television.”

Kralel _liked_ the pub. There was a feeling of openness and cordiality here that he hadn’t felt in other restaurants, which seemed to be the most similar equivalent. He also liked all the little rainbows.

“Hiya, Angel,” said the man behind the bar. “Hi, Red.”

Aziraphale laughed. “As imaginative as ever, Doc. This is an old friend from uni. He’s been an in-patient for a bit, so be gentle.”

“Never anything but.” The man named Doc grinned at Kralel. “Angel here picked a quiet night for you.”

“Breaking him in. Could we have a bottle of white, please?”

“Sure thing.” Kralel noticed that no money was exchanged this time. The pub was relatively quiet – only a handful of other people. Aziraphale led him to table and chairs towards the back of the long room.

“He knows you’re an angel?” Kralel hissed as soon as they were out of hearing range.

“He suspects it,” Aziraphale said as he poured wine into two glasses. “I healed him in 1984. He was in his twenties then. We’ve known each other a long time. It’s a nickname. All the regulars here have nicknames.”

“Like Red?”

“That’s a placeholder, until they know you better. If you come in with me, you’re entitled to a nickname.” Aziraphale looked proud of this.

A badge of honour, then? “And you can’t pick your own name?”

“No – you can always choose your own name. But your nickname is bestowed.”

Kralel couldn’t quite tell the difference, but decided to leave the topic in favour of a mouthful of wine. He was liking the initial taste more and more. This one tasted more… sweet? He suggested this, and Aziraphale confirmed it. Aziraphale liked sweet things, he was learning.

“I’ve got you a job, by the way,” Aziraphale said, after he took another mouthful of wine. “Two, actually. I know the council gardener who does Soho Square, and I asked if he needed an assistant. You’ll work with him in the mornings, and then in the afternoons you’ll be volunteering with St. Barnabas’. They look after the homeless population around here.”

Kralel’s eyebrows shot up. “On my own?”

“Yes, on your own. You’re older than the universe and you have magic powers,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Just keep your water pistol on you. You’ll get an awfully skewed view of modern life if you only learn it from the television.”

“What about the demon? Hastur?”

“He’s in London. I’ve felt him. I’ll try to find him, see what he’s planning,” Aziraphale said. He looked faraway for a moment. “It’s never anything good. Obviously.”

“Be weird if it was,” Kralel agreed. He finished his glass of wine, and felt a pleasant light warmth in his body. “Mmm. Feels nice.”

“Ah. Yes, it does,” Aziraphale said, coming out of his reverie. “Have another half. Cheers.”

They finished the bottle between them, and Kralel felt the kind of floating bliss he hadn’t known since… oh, before the War. No wonder Aziraphale liked it. He’d have to report back to Gabriel that they really had been sleeping on this for a long time. They should _all_ have wine in Heaven. Might be a little more fun, then. Everyone might be a little less uptight.

The thought had slipped into his mind before he even knew to stop it.

They waved in thanks to Doc, who waved back over the heads of some of the other patrons. The Admiral Duncan was just around the corner from the bookshop; it took less than a minute to walk it.

A man was standing in front of the locked door. He was a handspan taller than Aziraphale, wore an ill-fitting suit, and had a shock of whitish hair. A dirty, dank grey to Aziraphale’s feathery fluff. “Stay behind me,” Aziraphale said under his breath. “Hastur! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The demon turned around. His eyes were black, pure black. He gave off a stench like the alleyway behind the shop did on Saturday and Sunday mornings, but ten times worse, mingled with mildew and sulphur. “Aziraphale!” he said, with cordial menace. “So they gave me a new body after all. Lot of paperwork.”

“I wondered whether they had taken the opportunity to send someone more competent.” Aziraphale stood several metres back, and kept in between Hastur and Kralel.

“Nah. Fooled ‘em again. And rank has its privileges. And who’s _this_?”

“He’s my aide-de-camp.”

“Yeah, very camp if he spends too long with you. What’s your name, pretty angel?”

“He doesn’t have one,” Aziraphale answered for him.

Hastur grinned, showing rotten teeth. “He’s prettier than you.”

“No one’s prettier than me.” Aziraphale looked bored. “Do you want something, Hastur?”

“Just wanted to see the new angel I’ve been able to smell. Got all sorts of ideas. Found a wonderful new toy down in the Pit that I can’t wait to try out.” Hastur looked straight at Kralel, winked, and then looked back at Aziraphale. “Is this the moment where you tell me to leave him alone?”

Aziraphale snorted. “No. Have at him. I’ll do you the professional courtesy of letting you know he carries a water pistol at all times.”

“A water-” Hastur took a step back. “Quite an escalation there, princeling. Do your lot know you’re arming him with that?”

“I don’t particularly care. I’m very bored of this,” Aziraphale said. “I’m deadly, _deadly_ bored of the Game, but at least I know the rules. As do you.”

“New players need to learn quickly.”

“He’s not playing. I didn’t kill Ligur when I came across him in Damascus.”

“You cut his fucking head off.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Aziraphale said. “I trust you understand the difference. You get one warning, Duke, and this is it.”

Hastur gave a mocking salute. “Message received. Chow.” He held out his hands, then theatrically turned and walked away.

“God give me strength,” Aziraphale said. “Get in, lock all the doors.”

Kralel gaped at him. “You’re- he _wants_ you to follow him! And you’re just _going_ to? What if he wants to _kill _you?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I doubt it. He’s _flirting_. It’s the preamble. Feint, feint, step, test. I know what I’m doing, don’t worry. Now. In.”

“No! I’m not leaving you alone with that maniac!”

Aziraphale smiled bitterly at him. “I’ve been alone with that maniac for six thousand years, my dear. Now, get in, then at least I know you’re safe, and I don’t have to worry. Hurry, now. I don’t want to lose his trail.”

“All right.” Kralel bowed to Aziraphale's superior knowledge and experience. He stepped into the bookshop, and heard Aziraphale lock the door again.

Then he went straight out the back exit into the alleyway behind the shop.


	6. Chapter 6

This was it, Kralel thought. His human heart had caught on to his excitement and pounded in solidarity. He was going to find out why Aziraphale was so eager to send him off, to have the space for a private chat with a demon. If Aziraphale _was_ corrupt, surely this would be how he found out. Contact with a Duke of Hell. Games, and rules.

It was the only reason he could think Aziraphale would want him out of the picture.

Gabriel was going to be so proud. Two weeks. No one had expected him to get anything before he’d been on Earth for at least a year.

But they kept moving away from the bookshop. Hastur didn’t stop at a safe distance to talk. He walked through London, strewing acts of petty malice like a flower girl at a wedding. He wiggled his fingers and all the tires on a street were punctured; where he stepped, paving stones became unstable and metal grates weakened.

After Hastur followed Aziraphale, and behind him followed Kralel. He used miracles to fix the grates, and jumped on the paving slabs to set them back in place. He ignored the cars. Sometimes Hastur would wave his hand towards a building and a second later Aziraphale would as well. Kralel watched from a distance, completely confused.

It was dark now. The dance continued all over London; Kralel’s feet ached long before midnight. They had covered most of Soho, and were now in Westminster. Drunken partiers stumbled and were miraculously righted; fights broke out and then were calmed by the participants suddenly feeling a bit sleepy and bored.

Aziraphale didn’t catch all of them. Kralel found himself using miracles on Earth for the first time, and didn’t even have the time to think too hard about them or watch the results beatifically.

At midnight, Hastur picked up the pace. Aziraphale was speed-walking after him. This was obviously an all-night exercise. Suddenly, among the car alarms and barking dogs and potholes appearing in the room, Hastur sliced his hand towards a woman walking home. A tear opened up across her throat; she gurgled in pain and shock as blood poured out of her, and she fell to her knees.

Aziraphale didn’t so much as swear. He placed his hand over her throat, and the other across her forehead. There was a light like twin stars, and then he was walking away.

The woman staggered to her feet, visibly confused. The blood was gone. “Perve!” she shouted half-heartedly after Aziraphale.

Hastur did this again, and again, and again – every time a person was alone on a road, they were torn across the throat, or the abdomen. He lingered, giving Aziraphale just enough time to heal the wound and wipe their memory, and then he was off, always just a little ahead. Aziraphale was visibly lagging, physically and spiritually exhausted. His aura was dim, and a murky, washed-out grey. Hastur still flicked his hand at the odd building, and Aziraphale was now so exhausted that Kralel could see the flickering of orange and red which the angel then extinguished with another wave.

It stopped in a park – Kralel didn’t recognise this one. Dawn was breaking over the city. There were people jogging; Heaven liked jogging, though this was Kralel’s first time seeing them in the flesh. Kralel hid behind a bush, just close enough to be able to hear what was said, and to peek through the leaves.

Hastur stood on the grass, and spread out his hands. He made a mockery of an apologetic moue. “No prize this time, I’m afraid, but thanks for playing! See you tonight, angel.”

Aziraphale was practically swaying on his feet. “God damn you.”

“She already did. Have a _lovely_ day!” The soil beneath his feet began to churn and spit, and he sank straight down, into the ground, leaving only a small pile of disturbed earth.

Kralel watched Aziraphale sit down on a bench. He folded over his knees, face in his hands. Kralel didn’t think he was crying, but he’d only seen crying on television, never in real life.

Eventually Aziraphale sat up again, and his face was indeed dry. He tottered up and slowly walked to the edge of the park. He raised out a hand into the road, and one of the black cars you could ride in for a fee stopped to pick him up.

Kralel watched in a tired, confused daze.

And then, for the very first time, said “Oh, _shit_-“

*

Aziraphale felt dead on his feet as he unlocked the bookshop door. His mind didn’t require the filing that humans needed REM sleep for, but sometimes when his body was exhausted he fell asleep anyway. He hated it. It made him so terribly vulnerable. It was one of the first ways Hastur had discorporated him. At least now there was Kralel to raise the alarm if he did drop off…

Or there should have been. “Kralel!” he called, but he could sense no angelic presence in the bookshop. He reached up, and out: nowhere. “Kralel!”

He felt icy dread descend on him. Had Hastur been trying to distract him? Had he brought another demon topside? No, how would they have known about Kralel – he tore through the shop, leaving the door wide open behind him.

He wasn’t in the backroom, or the kitchenette. He wasn’t in the flat upstairs. Aziraphale nearly discorporated himself in his rush to get back down the stairs. The angel was naïve, he was vulnerable, if a demon used a human to lure him out he’d be gullible enough to-

There was Kralel, in the middle of the shop, as sheepish as a field in April. Aziraphale stopped, and drew a sharp breath he didn’t need. “Where on earth were you?! I told you not to leave the-“

His treacherous legs gave out beneath him. Kralel caught him, and dragged him to the sofa; Aziraphale tried to get his legs back under control, and staggered away from him. He knocked his shin against the table leg as he turned and collapsed into the old Chesterfield. “I told you not to leave the shop! Do you know how worried I was?”

“I was fine, I was fine, I was totally fine-“

“You might not have been! Do you know what Hastur could have done to a green thing like you? You have _no idea_ what he’s capable of, what he’s done! For God’s sake, Kralel, he’s- What if he was distracting me, what if he’d sent someone else after you?”

“He didn’t have any time to call down and tell anyone, though, did he? You were with him all night.”

“They might have spies, they might-“ Aziraphale frowned, and tried to push himself up from the sofa; Kralel easily held him down with one hand. “How do you know what he had time to do?”

“Because I followed you!” The fury that built in Aziraphale was like ice and lightning all at once. It wasn’t enough for this cuckoo to invade his nest; now he had seen the lengths he had to go to, the dance Hastur loved to lead him on. And Aziraphale had been _worried_ about him! He opened his mouth but Kralel cut him off. “And you can be angry with me and that’s fine, but I’m not a coward even if I am green, and I wasn’t going to leave you alone with him! You’re not on your _own_ now, you idiot!”

Aziraphale pulled away as though Kralel had slapped him.

The other angel sank down onto the sofa beside him. Aziraphale couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t bear the concern on Kralel’s face, the confusion. He looked at where the Persian carpet had worn through instead. “What _was that_, Aziraphale? Why did you let him do that all night? You’re absolutely shattered.”

Aziraphale swallowed, and closed his eyes. “… could I trouble you for a cup of tea?”

He heard Kralel exhale sharply. “… yeah. Sure. I’ll put the kettle on. … There’s that pack of Dairy Milks in the fridge too.”

Aziraphale nodded. The worst thing about being so tired was that he always felt on the verge of tears, and yet tears never came. He should have used Hastur’s discorporation to go to the theatre, or a concert… Now he couldn’t. Now, the Game was afoot until one of them was discorporated again.

Instead of crying he took the Dairy Milk that Kralel held out to him, but he was too exhausted to open it. “That was… the Game. For thousands of years, if Hastur or I saw the other, we’d fight. To the death. Human death. Hastur liked to make it slow, when he could. The Game is his way of drawing out the enjoyment of the thing. Do you know what a dead man’s switch is?”

Kralel shook his head.

“Right. Well, do you know what a bomb is?”

That had come up a lot in Heaven. He nodded.

“All right. So. It was back in… About a hundred years ago. Just over. Hastur was given a new body, came up. Taunting, fight, the usual bloody business. Looking back on it he let me kill him. But before he had come to meet me, Hastur had put a bomb in a Hackney carriage. It was only a small one. Killed two people. But because Hastur died, it went undiscovered, and so it went off.”

“So… he hides a bomb, every night? And leads you to it?”

“Sometimes. Most of the time there’s no bomb at all. But I have to go anyway, because if that’s the night when he has… About a quarter of the time. Enough that I know he’s not bluffing.”

“But… _why_?” Kralel looked at him searchingly, face contorted. “I don’t understand, why would he do that?”

“He’s a sadist. He takes pleasure from people’s pain, Kralel. That’s what a demon is. It’s evil. Its sole purpose is to spread misery and hatred to every living thing. Oh, sometimes they give a human what they want in the short term, to damn them in the long. But Hastur enjoys it. He likes to prolong it… Sometimes he or I are elsewhere, and we have to track the other down and try to sabotage whatever we’ve been ordered to… But in the absence of specifics, Hastur’s decided that it’ll be this. We’ll play this now, every night, until one of us can get the jump on the other during the daytime. I need to catch him placing the bomb, or whatever trap he’s… I have a silver bowl, under the sink, I scry with it.”

“Why don’t you just tell Heaven? Why don’t you kill him with holy water?”

“I _have_ told Heaven,” Aziraphale said. “Gabriel said that at least I was keeping him occupied. Then they told me off for not filing enough reports on time, and I realised they must have forgotten. Or didn’t care.”

“But- Aziraphale, if you kill him-”

“I’ll create a diplomatic fracas. Hastur’s a Duke of Hell. It would be an escalation of hostilities, and the only thing that ends in that direction is Armageddon. No. Better to let the bombs go off than that. But better still to prevent either. I’ll be fine. Some food and some caffeine and I’ll be fine.”

“You’re quite obviously not fine,” Kralel snapped. “What about God? Why not bring it right to the top? Surely She can do something!”

“Of course She _can_. But She doesn’t.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, and leant his head back onto the arm of the sofa. “You think I haven’t tried, dear boy?”

“You might have, but I haven’t,” Kralel said.

Aziraphale tried to smile. “Good luck. After the tea…”

*

Aziraphale was asleep by the time the kettle had boiled. His head was bent back, and his mouth was open.

Kralel wrote down everything he had witnessed and sent the report straight up to Gabriel. He then wrote a missive for the Metatron, and sent that straight up to, marked with enough psychic URGENT energy to annihilate any bird it went past on the way up.

Heaven couldn’t know that this was what Earth was like. Why weren’t there more angels stationed here? He’d been wasting bloody millennia helping to deal out raps across the knuckles when… He stopped himself. No. Angelic corruption was what had created these demons in the first place. If it was in Heaven, it really did need to be stamped out.

But was it in Aziraphale?

He thought of the make-up in the bathroom. And he thought about the long night.

When Aziraphale woke up Kralel brought him a cup of tea. “What should I do? How can I help?”

“Just be careful,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t be looking behind as well as ahead. Stay here tonight, look after the shop. You’ve got gardening tomorrow.”

Kralel scoffed. “Gardening? While you try to track down a demonic bomb?”

“Oh, sorry, of course, I forgot you were a trained… bomb-finder,” Aziraphale said, trailing off in his exhaustion.

Privately, Kralel thought Aziraphale didn’t seem like much of a trained bomb-finder either. “Well, _you_ could do that while I follow him and heal people!”

“No,” Aziraphale said, cold and sharp. “Absolutely not.”

“We’re the same age, Aziraphale, I’m not a child, I can do all the things you can-“

“No. As soon as you play you’re fair game. Swear to me, Kralel. Swear to me by God’s Holy Name.”

“No!”

“Fine. Well. I’ll write to Gabriel and say that you’re insubordinate. Not suited to work here.”

“It’s only the bloody insubordinate that they _send_ to work here!”

He expected Aziraphale to explode; instead, he laughed. He passed a hand over his face. “Ah… touché. You have me there.”

Kralel sat down again, in Aziraphale’s usual chair. “You can’t just go on like this. It’s not right.”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale said. “But ours is not to reason why.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s from a poem by Tennyson. _Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die._”

Something deep and primal revolted in Kralel. “Bullshit.”

“Hey! I can’t believe this – you’ve been on Earth for a fortnight and you’re already using language like that-“

“No, Aziraphale, it’s bloody bullshit! Bloody- bloody pissing bollocks fuck bullshit! Every other word humans made up for this _nonsense_.”

“We are _angels_. We act in accordance with Divine Will. If this is part of God’s ineffable plan, then I just have to lump it. Stop swearing.”

Kralel looked up to Heaven in exasperation. “You’re worried about swearing when-“

“I’m worried about swearing because I have to stay in control! Kralel! … Kralel. It’s complicated. It’s not that I never doubt. I have my own nights where I… I drink, and read Hopkins, and wait for dawn. Where I lie on the sofa, or in the bath, and suddenly twelve hours have passed. Look, I have a poem that might help-“

“More _poems,_ Aziraphale-“

“Poems have been all I’ve had. Books. Stories.” Aziraphale got up from the sofa, and he moved like an old man. Kralel couldn’t watch.

“I’m going to go Upstairs. I’ll go to Heaven. I’ll let them know.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said, and he looked scared in a way that he hadn’t all night chasing Hastur. Kralel felt sick. All those bites and nibbles had added up. “Please don’t. I don’t want to make waves. I don’t want any fuss.”

Aziraphale pressed a slim book into his hands. _The Dark Night of the Soul and Other Poems of St. John of the Cross. _Kralel wanted to throw it at him.

“I’ve found that in periods of doubt and despair focusing on God Herself, rather than Heaven or its orders… that can help. Even all the way down here, we can still feel Her love. Trust in that,” Aziraphale said kindly. “Even when you have questions, when you have doubts… that’s when trust actually _matters_.”

“You _should_ make a fuss about this, Aziraphale. It’s not right.”

“It is what it is. Please, don’t mention it. Honestly. The last thing I want is more attention. I’ll sort Hastur out.” Aziraphale held up his hand, ring finger pressed to thumb. “Do not be afraid.”

“That’s for humans,” Kralel said sulkily. “Not for _me_.”

“It’s for beings to whom I want to give some comfort.” Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. “I think I’ll have a bath. I always feel better after a bath. You’ll let Jose in if he knocks?”

“Yeah. Yeah, course.” Kralel watched Aziraphale climb the stairs up to the flat, and something in him was creaking as much as the old wood was.

Right. There had to be a book _somewhere_ in here about bombs.


	7. Chapter 7

The next month was the most exhausting of Kralel’s existence. He had never been so busy, and he had never realised how much time in Heaven was spent doing… nothing.

Kralel had refused to do the job and the volunteering that Aziraphale had organised. What was the point of all that with the Game Hastur was insisting on playing every night? They had, after a four-hour long argument, come to a compromise. Kralel would take up the morning job, and learn the layout of London. In the afternoon, instead of volunteering, he came back to the bookshop to keep watch while Aziraphale caught an hour’s sleep, or had a bath, or read. Or, most of the time, to make endless cups of tea while Aziraphale scried.

Aziraphale was trying to teach him, to no avail. You needed concentration and power to scry, and Kralel was very good at fixating on one thing. But he tended to do things in short, fast bursts, while Aziraphale could read or scry for six hours without looking up once. He created a vision of London from the sky, and stared, watching for a blink of sickly white-green demonic light that represented a demon breaking ground.

What was _the point_ of Earth surveillance? The five hundred years he’d spent there had been soul-numbingly boring, and now Kralel wished for nothing more than to have a permanent seat. There it would be easy to locate wherever Hastur had been in the last few hours, find a bomb, boom. Or no boom. Easy, in any case.

He begged Aziraphale to let him ask Heaven for a hand. Aziraphale said no. They’d reprimand him for waste of Heavenly resources, was his reasoning.

Kralel sent a missive anyway.

At night, Hastur led Aziraphale on their dance around London, and Kralel followed at a distance. At least he now did it with Aziraphale’s knowledge. He’d made it very clear that unless Aziraphale bound him to the bookshop with a summoning circle or something Kralel _was_ going to follow, so he might as well do it with Aziraphale’s permission because he would just follow without it otherwise.

Aziraphale had given him a very strange look, and finally relented. The only exception was that he was to go home an hour before sunrise, so he could scry when the round ended, and so know what Aziraphale’s makeshift demonic activity light looked like.

In the morning, Aziraphale would stagger into the shop, soak his feet, and nap on the sofa. Kralel would wake him before he left for his gardening job.

He felt guilty for enjoying it so much. For a few hours he could just follow orders. Simple orders, like dig a hole, or carry something to the van, or back. Richard, his _boss_, gave clear orders, and didn’t mind when he didn’t know what something was.

(When he found out why, and what an ‘in-patient’ actually was, he had sulked until Aziraphale had asked in that bland, light voice, “And why would it bother you if someone thought you’d been an in-patient, Kralel?” He might not have known Aziraphale for long, but he knew a bloody trap when he saw it, and he’d already been on the receiving end of Aziraphale’s disappointed expressions and hour-long lectures about _stigma_.)

And he liked being in the squares and the parks, clearing away the dead summer flowers, or cutting the grass. The smell it created was intoxicating – the best thing Kralel had ever smelt, by a country mile (he didn’t know what a country mile signified yet). The leaves were beginning to turn yellow, as Aziraphale had promised on that first day in Soho Square.

Just as good as the gardening was the _van_. Richard was happy to answer every question he had about it. One day they’d had to drive to one of the outer parks, and the swooping sensation in Kralel’s abdomen as the van reached 27 miles per hour was like flying. He hadn’t flown in hundreds of years. And humans had found a way to do it without wings. They’d even found a way to do it with music and drumming and _electric guitars_. When he’d asked about them, Richard had brought out a tiny television he kept in his pocket and shown him. This one, you could ask it to show you anything, and it did. Back in the 14th century, that’d be a short, sharp walk to the pyre. And yet now, Richard was amazed that he hadn’t known it was possible.

“Aziraphale!” he said, bursting into the shop at 1 on a late September day. “The van went over 30 miles per hour today, you should have seen it, it was amazing!”

There was a rare customer inside, who looked at him funny. Aziraphale gave him an indulgent smile, looking up from his silver bowl of water. “Well, I’m glad you had fun at work, my dear. Gosh, is it 1 already? Here, could you run across the Brewed Awakening?”

Kralel took the purse. “Sure, what do you fancy?”

“Oh, hmm, mochaccino. With extra coffee – ask them for whatever has the most caffeine in it. And a slice of chocolate cake.”

“Gotcha,” Kralel said. This was the kind of errand he enjoyed. The women behind the counter always smiled at him and didn’t mind when he made mistakes. They tittered behind their hands, yes, but their eyes always stayed on him. It didn’t feel mean.

It was dizzying, to be able to tell the difference. With humans there were a thousand nuances of expression and emotion, and trying to read them on their faces was like trying to read an exciting story in a difficult foreign language.

He was looking at the cakes on display, trying to decide whether to try carrot cake or millionaire shortbread, when in the glass appeared a reflection of Gabriel’s face. He jumped, and there Gabriel was, beaming at him.

Kralel drew him out of the queue. Aziraphale had told him a lot about queues. “Hi, sir.”

“Lot of messages, Kralel!” Gabriel said. “Awful lot.”

“Yeah. Um,” Kralel said. Brewed Awakening was a small shop, and there was nowhere to speak in private. Except… “This way.”

There was a bathroom at the back of the café, with enough room for a wheelchair. “Really, Kralel, there’s no need,” said the archangel. “It’s not like they’d understand what we were talking about.”

“Best to be discreet, though, sir. They’re friends with Aziraphale.”

Gabriel nodded, and tapped his nose. “All right then. Look, all this about Hastur – that’s just the job down here, right?”

“But Earth Surveillance would be able to find one of those bombs as easy as kiss my hand,” said Kralel, employing another Aziraphalism.

Gabriel inhaled between his teeth. “It’s not a priority-“

“Oh, but it is, for us,” Kralel said, with sudden inspiration. “While he’s distracted by all the running around, and the scrying, there’s no chance to talk to him at all. I mean, I’m meant to be finding out what he’s been up to over the last few thousand years, right? I can’t do that if he runs around after Hastur every night. If we can discorporate the demon again, we’ll get some time where Aziraphale feels more complacent, more happy to sit and talk.”

“Hmm.” Gabriel said. “You might have a point. I’ll see what-“

There was a sharp rap on the door. “Oi! You can’t have sex in there!”

“We’re,” Kralel said, desperately glancing at Gabriel. “Not having sex! No sex in here!”

“You can’t shoot up either!”

“Speaking of which,” Gabriel said. “Carry on, Kralel – I’ll see what can be done.” With a flash of light he was gone, and Kralel pulled open the door.

The woman called Hannah stared at him, and then frowned in confusion. “I could have…”

“Sorry,” Kralel said. “Was just desperate all of a sudden. For a wee.”

“Someone was in there with you,” Hannah said. “Fancy American bloke.”

Kralel looked at her. “… nope.”

It seemed kinder to just wipe her memory of it. He went for the millionaire shortbread in the end.

*

Kralel had been disappointed the first time he’d seen a bomb. He knew from television that there was a clock and wires and you cut the red one two seconds before it went off. Aziraphale just spread his hands, pulling them into their component parts, and vanished them. Absolutely no sense of drama.

Six weeks. The seventh bomb. Aziraphale was worn down, Kralel knew. They were returning from the forty-third night. The weather was changing – there was rain, and wind. Coldness like Kralel had never experienced. Aziraphale had told him to make himself a coat and a hat. At work he spent most of his time raking wet leaves into black bin liners. All his earlier delight in London had evaporated; the city was a cold, wet, dank place, full of people waiting to be victims or aggravations.

“You’re tired, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, as he fumbled with the bookshop keys.

“I’m not a boy!” Kralel said. “We’re the same bloody age.” He exhaled, as the key found home. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right. You’re right. And we’re both tired,” said Aziraphale. He sounded like he had at the beginning of his time on Earth; stiff and irritable. “You could try sleeping, if you wanted. It might help.”

“Angels don’t need sleep,” he snapped, wiping his feet on the mat. He growled at himself. “Sorry!”

Aziraphale, unpredictably, huffed in laughter. “It’s all right,” he said again. “I’m going to have a bath and sort my feet out.”

“Cool,” Kralel said. He did it more to elicit the rolled eyes from Aziraphale that he knew he’d get in return. They both climbed stairs – Aziraphale to the flat, and Kralel to the mezzanine level where his television was.

No work on Sunday, but rubbish television too. Sunrise was now so late that he’d missed Gardener’s World. He managed to catch a programme about an American bar, though, and that was enjoyable enough. Once Aziraphale came down in a towel dressing gown they took turns scrying.

Kralel didn’t know why he felt so on edge. He wanted to start an argument, and Aziraphale wasn’t helping by being all _understanding _and _patient_. He was supposed to be a corrupt bastard who’d been getting away with murder for centuries, so then Kralel could be the hero who finally brought him down. A new Raphael, binding the renegade angel for punishment.

He went to the Japanese restaurant at the end of the street at four. Hastur would be along at sunset, which was now around six. As he walked back, he ran into Jose, who looked even more jittery than usual. “Ah, hey.”

“Bastard. Bastard gave me this,” Jose said, and shoved him a grubby note. “He said _you. _Not the vicar. Not the vicar. Cunt.”

Kralel frowned, and read the note.

_Spoke to Earth Surveillance. Duke Hastur spotted with demonic incendiary device. Put under a wooden chair thing in St. James’s Park, beside the water._

It had worked. He grinned at Jose. “Thank you – _thank you_. See you tomorrow, yeah? Six sugars.”

“Stupid cunt,” replied Jose.

He rushed back in. He needed some way to pretend he had found the bomb himself. He needed to get Aziraphale away from the scrying bowl.

Luckily, he had the perfect bait. He wiggled his fingers.

*

After three nigiri Aziraphale decided to sit on the sofa and put his feet up before the long night ahead. After another four he was asleep, drooling slightly on the arm of the sofa.

He didn’t need Aziraphale to be asleep for long. He waited for twenty minutes, fretting horribly, then shook the other angel. “Aziraphale! Aziraphale! Wake up, I’ve found it! I’ve got it!”

“Mpf?” Aziraphale blinked, and wiped his mouth. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep – I was scrying, and I saw it. It’s in St. James’s, under one of the benches.”

“It is?” Aziraphale blinked again, and spent a small miracle on waking himself up properly. “And you scried it? Kralel, I’m so proud – you are a marvel! What time is it? Oh, we don’t have long!”

Aziraphale reached under the sofa, and drew out a long, steel sword.

Kralel’s gold eyes were huge. “Whoa. Is that… is that _the_ sword?”

“Which sword?” Aziraphale said, and blushed crimson. He looked down at the pommel. “No, no. This is a different sword. Got this one, oh. Must be seven hundred years ago now. So no, no fire. But sharp. It’s a bastard sword, as it’s called sometimes. Nice and adaptable. I needed something with a longer reach, with Hastur being that much taller.”

“Right. Yeah.” Kralel didn’t know anything much about swords.

Aziraphale noticed and smiled. “Taller demon, longer arm. So I need a longer sword to compensate. … you didn’t wield a sword, you know, um. During the War?”

Kralel shook his head. “No. I was in the reserves.”

“Ah. I was a cherub, then, of course. Lead a whole platoon.” Aziraphale was still staring at the blade. “God, it was awful.”

Kralel shifted on his feet. “Are you just going to stab him when he turns up?”

“As tempting as it is… No. I need you to go to the park and find the device first. Bring the sword with you. He’ll know something’s up if I have it. Then, when you’ve found the bomb and got rid of it, we need to have some way that you can find me…”

“Why don’t I just wait for him there? Stab him when he turns up?”

Aziraphale looked slightly embarrassed. “Well…”

“You don’t think I could do it?”

“I don’t know. And tonight isn’t the best opportunity to find out, is it? No, I don’t want him to see you. As soon as he sees you, you’ll be fair game the next time he comes up. Or, worse, he’ll win, and go straight after you. No, we need to think of a way for you to deliver the sword to me without being seen.”

“How will I find you? Richard uses a mobile phone. He said I should get one.”

“Well, we’d need two, and I don’t think we have time to buy them and learn how to use them in fifteen minutes.” Aziraphale traced a lazy figure of eight with the sword, stretching his wrist, deep in thought. He looked up at Kralel, and frowned.

“What?”

“We could… Hastur and I have known each other long enough that I can sense him. I think it begins with touch.” Aziraphale moved his sword to his left hand, and held out his right. “Can you find a sense of me?”

Kralel took his hand, and closed his eyes. _Aziraphale,_ he thought. _Aziraphale…_

The smell of paper, but not the texture of it. Softer. Like skin. Intricate swirls of blue and gold and red, and a cramping hand – no, fish and rice, exquisitely cut and arranged – no, gleaming metal set with jewels and pearls, and the satisfied sigh. It almost made Kralel laugh, at the way it shifted and changed. The metal gleamed into velvet, and then into golden wine – bubbling up, or sinking into amber. Solidifying into frankincense, turning into the smoke rising from holy charcoal. Lines, and patterns – words falling neatly into place, or rising to become music – the potentials and the possibilities, guided by a loving hand; the joy of discovery, and the bittersweet ache of remembering what was lost … And at the heart of it, soft, blue-white light.

Aziraphale laughed, and Kralel opened his eyes in surprise. Aziraphale’s were still closed. “It’s like… when you dive from a great height, wings back, and you feel like you’ve left your stomach behind. The speed of it! And… green things. Growing things. Everything growing and changing all the time… But that swooping!”

Kralel laughed too. It felt easy, with the gleaming joy around his hand, on the edge of his essence. “Like the van!”

“Better than the van!” Aziraphale promised, and Kralel could feel his sincerity. “Champagne bubbles. And… iridescence. The hidden shining. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“No need. It’s just me.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. “It is.” Their hands were joined, but Kralel could feel some part of himself reached beyond his human skin. An exploration of essence, like two breaths mingling…

How could Aziraphale have this with Hastur?

He broke away, quickly, and drew a sharp breath. Aziraphale blinked, and flexed his hand. “Well. Did it work?”

Kralel closed his eyes again. It was beyond sight, or sound, but he could feel it. Barely more than a shimmer, or a sudden scent. But recognisably Aziraphale. “I think so.”

“Good.” Aziraphale looked flustered; if his wings had been out, Kralel had the impression they’d be fluttering. “He’ll be here in a second. I’ll wait outside, and you can go to St. James’s. You know the way?”

“Of course. It’ll be fine.”

“Do _not_ let him see you. No heroics.”

“Mm,” Kralel said. Aziraphale handed him the sword; it was heavier than he’d thought it would be. “And you. Be careful.”

“Ah, always,” Aziraphale said with a wave of his hand, and Kralel thought, _liar_. He was surprised that the thought was so fond.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence, gore, suicidal ideation and some non-explicit non-con elements in this one.

Kralel watched Aziraphale walk down the street, and locked the door behind him. He sighed, resting his forehead against the old wood. He had never… experienced violence, before. He had seen it, of course, in Earth Surveillance. But he suspected it would be different, seeing it close up.

“I thought he’d never leave!” Kralel spun on his heel. Gabriel stood in the centre of the bookshop. “Right. If we have the place to ourselves, you can show me around.”

Kralel's human heart was pounding. “Sir?”

“Anything interesting you’ve found so far,” said Gabriel, as though he was stupid. He took a rectangle of clear crystal from his pocket. “I don’t have long.”

“Neither do I – sir, I have to find the bomb and disable it-“

“Of course you do. And thanks to us, you know where to find it,” Gabriel said, with a wide smile.

Kralel writhed. “Right. Right, yes, of course. Sorry, sir.”

“Forgiven, Kralel! Right, you mentioned make-up. Where’s that?”

Kralel led Gabriel upstairs. It felt as though his feet were made of lead. The flat was very much Aziraphale’s territory; in nearly two months, Kralel had yet to be invited up. Not that Aziraphale spent much time in there, in truth. The bedroom in particular was quite unused. He only really went up for the bathroom.

“So strange,” said Gabriel, stepping in. “The things humans have to do to appear even bearable.”

“It’s relaxing. Apparently.” Kralel half-heartedly hoped Gabriel might try one of the cologne bottles that had attacked him on his first time up here. The thought came quite unbidden, and stopped him cold. “Sir, Aziraphale needs me to-“

“Well, well, well,” Gabriel said as he spotted the make-up, organised on its enamel tray. He dipped his finger into one of the pots, and looked at the creamy smear on his fingertips. “Urgh. So. Do you think it’s vanity, or lust?”

Kralel stared, caught between the rock and the hard place. “Um. Do you mean whether he… _looks…_?”

“I mean, does he have sex with humans?”

“No,” Kralel said. “At least, not that I’ve seen. No. And even if he did, I think it’d be with men, so it’s not the same. No chance of any Nephilim, you know?”

“Noooo,” Gabriel said, staring at him. “But he’d still be having sex with a _human_. It’d be like… bestiality.”

“Right,” Kralel said. “Yeah, sure. Angels only.”

“And no angel would have him! So, keep an eye out for that.” Gabriel wiped his finger on one of the white towels and stepped out of the bathroom.

Kralel cleaned it with a quick miracle, and smoothed the make-up. “Don’t want him to get suspicious,” he said, when Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

Gabriel was interested in the collection of Wicked Bibles. Neither he nor Kralel had read the Bible, but Gabriel was interested in any possible predilection towards wickedness. He also noted the stocked fridge, and the bottles of alcohol. “Nothing… demonic, around the place?”

“No, sir,” Kralel said without hesitation. “Definitely not. Absolutely loathes demons.”

“Hm.” Gabriel’s eyes landed on the sword which Kralel was due to deliver. “New sword. Not heavenly design. We never did find the other one, searched all of Eden for it, and then outside… Never turned up. Where did he stash it, hm? Why? Prevailing theory was that if he didn’t have it, and it he hadn’t lost it in the Garden like he said, it must be in Hell. Whether he lost it and they took it, or…” Gabriel fixed his violet eyes on Kralel’s golden ones. “When you can, try to get him to tell you about the sword.”

Kralel nodded. “Yes, sir. It’ll… it’ll be easier, once Hastur’s back in Hell.”

“All right.” Gabriel smiled, and placed a heavy hand on Kralel’s shoulder. “You’re doing really well. First proper mission, and he doesn’t suspect a thing. You’re a natural.”

“Ngk,” said Kralel.

Gabriel clapped his shoulder. “Keep up the good work! And stay in touch!”

There was a flash of light, and Gabriel ascended. Kralel shrugged his shoulders up and down, and then picked up the sword. He passed a hand over it to disguise it from human eyes, held it close to his body, and left the shop. Time to go to St. James’s Park.

*

It was midnight, and Kralel still hadn’t come near with the sword. Aziraphale glanced around whenever he thought Hastur wasn’t looking, but he was nowhere to be found. He was beginning to have a terrible feeling that he had asked too much of Kralel; what if St. James’s Park was a trap? How could Kralel be sure he had seen Hastur in the bowl? He should have asked more questions, but he’d _wanted to believe_ he could be released from this. It was the very thing he had warned Kralel against when he had first arrived. Easy answers.

Down Shaftesbury Avenue in the pouring October rain, icy down the back of Aziraphale’s camelhair coat. He put up his collar in vain. The Horses of Helios were oil-slick-black and menacing, writhing in pain as Hastur passed them. Piccadilly Circus was still full of people despite the hour, and Aziraphale could have sat down in the middle of the road and wept, such was the effort of watching exactly whom Hastur was attacking and how. In the end he had to do it on angelic sensation rather than relying on his eyes; he knew he looked quite mad, a soaking man with a bow tie and no umbrella, with his eyes shut in the middle of Piccadilly Circus at midnight in the rain. He didn’t care. He waited for the stroke of pain, vivid red among the drunkenness and the tiredness, and surged forward to help, over and over.

Where was Kralel?

Hastur led him down to St. James’s Square, rather than the park. The gates were locked, but that presented no problem to the ethereal or the occult. In the centre of the dark, empty lawn, Hastur lounged against the plinth on which stood the Bacon statue of William of Orange.

Aziraphale disliked St. James’s Square. Surrounded by the Georgian buildings, it was no surprise Hastur felt at home here. BP and Rio Tinto Headquarters, the East India Club, naval clubs, military clubs, private members clubs – a dozen bastions of privilege, ambition, and imperialism. Only freeholders and residents could enter the Square after 4:30, so they were unlikely to be disturbed.

At least by anyone on Aziraphale’s side.

“Are you tired so early, Duke?” he asked casually, putting his hands in his coat pockets.

“I thought _you_ might be. Ever so distracted tonight.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I _did_ say. I find this all ever so boring.”

“You never used to,” Hastur said. “You always used to be so _scared_.” Hastur mimicked Aziraphale, fists up, shaking. Then he barked a laugh. “Lovely ego boost for me.”

“You’ve grown more unimaginative with age.”

“And you’ve grown hard.”

“It happens. That’s how you can tell a cake from a biscuit, you know. Cake goes hard when it goes stale. That’s me.”

Hastur pushed himself up from the plinth. “And no one wants to eat stale cake.”

“Oh, is that your plan for tonight?” Aziraphale said. He stepped forward. “I don’t think you’ve eaten one of my corporations in about four thousand years. I imagine it’s one of the demonic classics.”

“Well, I’ve always been the one who had to be creative!” Hastur whined in mockery. “You always just stabbed me or cut my head off. You never lingered.”

“I never wanted to. You don’t fascinate me, Duke. I don’t find you interesting. The amateur dramatics, the shock value… _Oh, cannibalism! Oh, torture, oh, rape, oh, horrible, horrible murder!_” Aziraphale shook his head, with an expression of pity. “It’s _banal_. You are an inconvenience. Never anything more.”

Hastur tutted. “Now you’ve hurt my feelings. And I had actually brought up a present this time. Just to spice things up.”

He brought his hand out of his pocket. In it was a small poignard, but the energy radiating off it was anything but insignificant. The metal of the blade was black, with a yellow gleam to it. “Forged in hellfire. Tempered by being thrust into the core of a damned soul.”

Aziraphale relaxed, completely. He looked up, but there were no stars. Only the clouds and the rain. That was enough. It would suffice. “I imagine that could do a lot of damage to an angel,” he said softly. “If you wielded it well.”

This was obviously not the reaction Hastur had wanted. “Oh, it could cut right through your essence, angel. I cut your throat with this and you won’t go floating up to all your mates again. You’ll just _die_.”

Aziraphale could have laughed. He started walking towards Hastur. “Do you promise?”

Hatsur actually stepped back. “What?”

“Oh, don’t _tease_, Duke Hastur. Don’t promise a girl a good time and go frigid at the last minute,” Aziraphale said. He stepped onto the lawn. “I thought you said you were going to spice things up? Come on.”

Hastur gaped. He held up the knife, and walked forwards to meet Aziraphale. Aziraphale stood still. Hastur came closer, and closer, until he could have stabbed him in the heart with ease.

“Poor, stupid angel,” he said quietly. “Whadya know? Ligur was right.”

“Your squat friend? About what was he right?”

“He said I should bring the hellblade up. But not as a threat.” Hastur suddenly laughed, and dropped the dagger into the soil, so that it stood up in the grass. “As bait.”

Aziraphale’s heart dropped to the ground with the hellblade. He sidestepped the first swipe of Hastur’s sudden claws, and crouched. He was next to weaponless, and Kralel was nowhere to be found. If Ligur was working with Hastur on this, could he have been waiting for Kralel? He bolted for the gate.

“Oh, no!” Hastur cried gleefuly, leaping on him from behind. Aziraphale smashed forwards onto the gravel and concrete, and automatically spent a miracle to save his teeth. Hastur fisted his hand in his hair, and ground his face against the sharp stones of the path.

“I’m going to have to think of something very special now,” Hastur growled in his ear. “I’ll make you afraid again, my angel.”

Oh, cripes. Aziraphale really liked this waistcoat as well, but needs must. His wings ripped through his shirt, waistcoat, jacket, coat, tearing through the heavy fabrics like paper, and throwing Hastur off him.

Hastur rolled on the grass, and Aziraphale shoved himself up. His face was grazed and bleeding, but he couldn’t spare the concentration to heal it yet. His right wing rose, then his left; up and down, up and down, as he built up energy to busk. His wings rose up and out, arched high together, feathers fluffed or fanned, and he bent low to protect his head.

Hastur saw him, and grinned. “Oh, much obliged!”

It was what Hastur had wanted. Too late, Aziraphale put the hellblade and his wings together, as no doubt Hastur wanted to do. He resisted the instinct to fight, and took off instead; Hastur leapt like a frog and grabbed his ankle. Aziraphale was pulled off balance, and tumbled to the ground.

In a flash, Hastur was on him; he straddled his hips, and with his left hand clenched Aziraphale’s throat, pushing him down.

With his right, he plunged the knife down right in between the radius and the ulna of Aziraphale’s left wing.

Aziraphale screamed, and Hastur gripped his jaw with muffle it – instantly, he was beyond caring about not satisfying Hastur. He couldn’t move, the agony was so great; the movement of any other limb sent white-hot pain webbing through his wing and across his back.

Hastur smiled down at him, all milky drowned skin, and rotting teeth, and pitch black eyes. He turned the dagger, and Aziraphale cried out again. Hastur’s nails scratched against the grazes on his cheek.

“There,” the demon said quietly. He raked his claws across Aziraphale’s throat, and he felt the air pulled out of it.

“Do it, coward,” Aziraphale said in a whisper. A whisper was all that Hastur had allowed him. “Take your toy and finish it!”

“And start the War? Nah.” Hastur grabbed one of the primaries of Aziraphale’s right wing, and pulled it out. Aziraphale couldn’t even scream; he instinctively tried to roll over, to protect his right wing, and tore through more of his left. “Shush, shush, shush. Don’t worry. I’ll have my fun and take some souvenirs and send you back Up.”

Aziraphale bared his teeth. “I thought I wasn’t fun any more?”

“You’re not. Maybe I should kill you, then.” A maggot dropped from Hastur’s mouth onto Aziraphale’s face, and he shook his head to fling it off. Scarlet pain lanced through him again. He could feel the blood coating his secondaries. “Because I don’t think the War _would_ start if I really did kill you. I can’t imagine they’d be all that upset with me. I think we’d be able to smooth it over until Hell was ready to kill you all.”

“Then neither of us have anything to lose,” Aziraphale said. He kept Hastur’s eyes fixed on him. But his right hand found the pocket of his torn coat, and the paring knife he kept in it for book repairs. If he could force it into Hastur’s temple, or through his eye… Even cutting his throat would not be fast enough, with Hastur having such an advantage. He’d only need a second to heal himself. It had to be instantaneous.

“Oh, and so much to win! You get an end to your pitiful, pathetic existence. And I get a new toy in that idiot they’ve sent down to replace you! I bet he’d be scared of me, wouldn’t he, Aziraphale? What’s his name?” Hastur pressed his claws into Aziraphale’s chest, shoving his sternum down. Aziraphale felt the press of unholy glee into his essence: it was stench, rotting flesh, gallows faeces. It was phobia and defilement and hopelessness.

Hastur laughed. “What’s his name? Pereshiel? Zirmahiel?” Aziraphale tried to buck him off, and Hastur exhaled. Aziraphale could feel his excitement. “Oh, oh, oh. You _do_ still care about something, then. Him? Or _Her?”_

Hastur pressed in to find out. Better he lose his wing, thought Aziraphale, and stabbed at Hastur’s temple with the paring knife.

Or tried to. Hastur was deep enough in him now to gain a sense of his intention, and reared back. The paring knife sliced across one eye, and lodged fast in Hastur’s nose. Aziraphale struggled to force the tip back, and Hastur dragged the hellblade sharply down. Aziraphale felt the ulna resist, and then crack.

Hastur pulled the paring knife out of his face, and tossed it away. “So you do want to live?”

“Just do it,” Aziraphale whispered. “Go on. Finish it.”

They were both surprised by what happened next. Beyond Hastur, against the black of the night sky, there was a line of silver that sliced through the rain, and fell inexorably down through Hastur’s neck. His head smacked against Aziraphale’s cheek with enough force to bruise, and bounced onto the wet grass; Aziraphale felt the sick rush of a demon being sucked down to Hell. The tip of the sword’s blade was buried in the soil beside Aziraphale’s head; he only saw it for a second before he was blinded by the rush of blood, and winded by Hastur’s corpse falling onto him.

Someone shoved the body off him, and Aziraphale blinked blood out of his eyes. Shining against the rain-filled sky, Kralel stared down at him in shock, golden eyes huge and ringed in white. “Ah…” The rain pattered onto his face, and mingled with the blood. “Well done…” Aziraphale said, and passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names Hastur suggests for Kralel are both blasphemous, meaning "Dung of God" and, erm, "Emission of God". It's the word used for seminal discharge in Ezekiel 23:20. 
> 
> Aziraphale's paring knife: https://store.bookbinding.co.uk/store/product/6274/English-Paring-Knife-Right/


	9. Chapter 9

Without Aziraphale conscious to tut and tell him to mind his language, Kralel kept up a stream of profanity that would have made Jose proud. Swearing was an excellent pressure valve, and by God, he was under pressure. “_Shitshitshitshitshitshit_!” It took three separate miracles to get rid of Hastur: the body, then the head (after another bout of horrified cursing), and then the blood.

Aziraphale was lying on the sodden grass. He wasn’t covered in Hastur’s blood any more, but Kralel’s desperate miracle had also vanished his own blood, leaving his face alternatively sickly-pale and inflamed with pink.

His wings were out. One was pinned to the ground with a long dagger that _radiated_ evil. It felt hot as Kralel gripped the hilt, and pulled it free. The old blood was gone, but fresh red welled up.

Kralel could see bone. Suddenly his mouth was full of saliva, and he was far too aware of his own tongue. He put the knife to one side and then placed his hand, as gently as he could, on the injured wing.

Not gently enough. Aziraphale jolted back to consciousness with a strangled cry, and his right wing was fully extended in defence. “Don’t touch me!”

“Hey, hey!” Kralel said, and held his hands up. “I was going to heal-“

“Don’t touch it! Don’t!” Aziraphale snarled at him like something feral, and his right wing snapped around to shield him.

“It’s hanging off – okay, okay. Okay. Aziraphale. It’s me. It’s… it’s Kralel. Remember?”

Aziraphale blinked. His breathing was ragged, but he looked a little more present. “Kralel… You were… The bomb?”

“Done. Found it in the park, disabled it, vanished it. It’s fine.”

Aziraphale looked around at the soaked grass and mud. “Wh… Hastur. Hastur was here.”

“I vanished him too. Vanished his. I. I cut his head off.” Kralel’s face was twisting, and he didn’t know when he’d lost all control of his corporation. His hands were shaking, and his face was wet with hot liquid, not just the rain.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, and drew a long, deep breath. “You did. You did. It’s all right. You did exactly the right thing. Kralel. Look at me. You did the right thing.”

Kralel looked into Aziraphale’s pale eyes, and nodded desperately. “It just came off.”

“Exactly right. No time for him to heal the corporation. Did exactly the right thing.” He swallowed, and slowly forced his right wing back and away, so there wasn’t anything between them. “There was a knife. Hell knife. Forged in hellfire.”

Kralel picked it up, and he felt as though a snake was trying to slither up his throat, from his contracting stomach. “It was in your wing…”

“That’s it. We need to bring it with us. Send it up to Heaven. It’s enemy technology. ... Kralel, he broke my wing.”

“Yeah.” Kralel snuck a look at it. “It’s bleeding again.”

“We can’t splint it. You have to miracle it.”

“Yeah, I was trying to!” Kralel snapped, and Aziraphale looked confused. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t… I need to touch it. To heal it.”

He must have been in agony, but Aziraphale still hesitated. It looked, to Kralel’s adrenaline-sharp brain, as though an intellectual resignation to the fact was warring with an unthinking, animal panic. Kralel tried to bring his own panic under control. “Just going to touch it. Not even going to hold it. Okay?”

Aziraphale still shifted away from him when he reached out. His face was beginning to bleed again, from a hundred small cuts and grazes on his cheek, but Aziraphale didn’t even wipe his face. His eyes were fixed on Kralel’s hand.

A memory, six thousand years old, presented itself. Aziraphale, almost invisible he was so far below Kralel, in the pit of the Judgement Theatre, as the pair of wings that were superfluous to his new rank were sawn off. But Kralel saw the blood. And he heard the screams.

He dropped his hand. “Aziraphale… Can I please touch your wing? I want to heal it. But if I can’t, we’ll find another way. Make them invisible, walk back. We can take our time.”

Aziraphale’s wide eyes flicked to Kralel’s face. Kralel met them. After a moment, Aziraphale nodded.

“Thank you,” said Kralel. “Thank you. Right. This’ll hurt, just for a second.” He imagined Aziraphale’s voice trapped within a bubble around them, rather than muffle him. He gathered all his willpower and all his concentration, and poured it into Aziraphale’s wing as quickly as he could.

Aziraphale yelled, and thrashed. The whole wing was forced up, ulna fusing back together, meeting the radius, coated with new muscle and new skin. Kralel sighed out, and they both lay on the squelching lawn as the rain began again, pattering on them in the centre of St. James’s Square.

Kralel moved first, as Aziraphale seemed quite happy to lie there all night. “Urgh. Wet. Come on. Can relax now.”

Aziraphale groaned reluctantly, and groaned again as he pushed himself back up. “Taxi. Let’s get a taxi.”

“Oh, definitely.” Kralel helped Aziraphale to stand. “What else hurts?”

“Everything. But it’s all superficial, I think.” His right wing was cinched in, but the left was stiff and outstretched. “… could I trouble you to bring my left in?”

“Oh!” Kralel said, and blushed. “Yeah, sure.” He carefully brought Aziraphale’s wing in, and they vanished off the mortal coil.

“Thank you, my dear…” Aziraphale looked like he’d faint if he bent over, so Kralel picked up the sword and the horrible, gut-twisting knife. “Get back. Get back, and then we can… God, heal my strength.”

“Get back first,” Kralel agreed. He put an arm around Aziraphale to steady him, and they made their slow way to the metal gate.

The taxi drive was awkward for all that it lasted five minutes. Kralel had vanished the blood, but Aziraphale’s face was bleeding again and was covered in mud and grass besides, and they were both soaked to the skin. Aziraphale’s coat was now just a cape of tattered strips. He paid the cab-driver and wished him a good night, the rain should bode well, mind how you go.

Kralel couldn’t help but notice how Aziraphale’s shoulders dropped once they were in the shop and the door was locked behind them. In his mind, like one of Aziraphale’s gramophone records, what he had heard was spinning. _Just do it. Go on. Finish it. Just do it. Go on. Finish it._

He told himself that it was defiance. He knew it was a lie.

Aziraphale was examining the sword. “I’ll show you how to sharpen it tomorrow,” he said. “See how the bone’s put a notch in the edge?”

“Urgh. Yeah.” Kralel shut his eyes, and shuddered. He could still feel the knock, the infinitesimal shock before the sword carried on through Hastur’s spine.

“Ah – I’m sorry, my dear. I’ll make some tea-“

Kralel’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t you dare. I’m bloody fine. Sit down – go on, sit down. I'll make tea.”

“Yes. Tea...” Aziraphale said. He didn’t even put up a performative protest as he stripped off his soaked coat and sank into his favourite chair. “This is irredeemable, isn’t it?”

Kralel looked over. “It looks like it. Is that what happens, when you bring your wings out in clothes?”

“Yes. I rarely have them out.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” Kralel said. He switched on the kettle, and found two mugs. “They’ll need grooming.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and continued airily, “I don’t really groom them much. They’ll do.”

Kralel leant back and _stared_ at him from the kitchenette. “_What_?”

“I look after the primaries! And what I can of the secondaries.”

“But the backs? The coverts?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at him. “And how am I meant to reach them?”

“I’ll do them for you.”

“You will not.”

Unseen, Kralel clenched the counter. “Aziraphale.”

“No. I told you. They’ll be fine. Could I have that genmaicha with the praline?”

_Leave it_. He’d already let Kralel touch his wing to heal it. It could wait. Kralel knew what he needed to do. He’d ask Aziraphale to groom his own wings first, in a few days, when they were both less shaken. He filled the iron pot with the rice and tea and nuts, and poured in the boiling water.

Back in his favoured alcove, Aziraphale had stood up again, and was pouring out two generous measures of brandy. He looked completely ridiculous, with his bow tie, and his shirt in fluttering tatters, his waistcoat in rags. Kralel held up the teapot. “I thought we were having tea?”

“The tea’s for warmth. The brandy’s medicinal,” Aziraphale said. “Thanks to you, this is the safest night we’ll have, and each night afterwards becomes less safe. Therefore I intend to get very, very drunk. You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

Kralel looked suspiciously at the warm amber liquid. “I’ve never been drunk before…”

“First time for everything,” Aziraphale said. “You don’t have to. Please excuse me if I do.”

Every time Aziraphale said _you don’t have to_, Kralel felt seized by a petty desire to do whatever it was Aziraphale thought him incapable of. He didn’t know whether or not this was intentional on Aziraphale’s part or not, but he sat on the sofa, and took the glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Aziraphale said, raising his own crystal glass, and took a long drink. “Oh, God, that’s good.”

“Isn’t that a bit blasphemous?”

“Of course not. It’s a prayer.”

“I don’t think you can drink alcohol while you’re praying.”

“Ah, but you can pray while you’re drinking alcohol,” retorted Aziraphale. “It’s keeping God in mind during the mundane highs and lows of life on Earth.”

Kralel snorted. “I’m pretty sure that’s sophistry. … what does tonight count as?”

“I don’t know. Both, maybe. The brandy will help us decide. It strips away all the layers of self-deceit and intellectualism and repression. Get drunk enough, and you’ll start laughing or crying, and that will tell you what you’re really feeling.”

Kralel took a cautious sip of the fiery liquid. “And if we both end up crying?”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Then we’ll know we need to change something.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Well.” Aziraphale undid his bow tie. “It’s cathartic. A good cry. Like a dam breaking. It lets the stagnant water out. That’s why humans invented tragedies. It allows you to look horror in the face, in safety.”

Kralel pondered this for a moment. “Is that why you read?”

Aziraphale looked at him. “Careful. If you’re going to try psychoanalysis, I should be on the sofa.” He took another mouthful. He was already halfway through the glass. Kralel took a longer draught, and it burnt his throat. “I suppose so. That’s part of it. Humans… From the very beginning, they told stories to each other. Adam and Eve. What they had done during the day. Eve was the first to tell one that wasn’t true. Something about seeing a snake… Then she said she’d hadn’t really, but we had believed her! We both found it very funny. We tried to work out what made an untrue story a joke, and what made it a lie.” Aziraphale suddenly looked very uncomfortable, and finished his glass in a vain attempt to hide it.

Silence was Kralel’s greatest tool as an interrogator. Let a silence draw out long enough, and someone who was anxious would try to fill it with words. Eventually, they’d often incriminate themselves.

So when Kralel felt Aziraphale’s touch of anxiety, instead of staying silent, he asked, “You must have got to know them very well.”

“Oh, I did. Very well. Adam was more than nine hundred years old when he died. Eve nearly reached a thousand. Both died before the Flood, thank- Well. But then people kept living shorter and shorter lives.”

Shit. Was there _any_ topic that would steer Aziraphale from maudlinity? “What about writing? When did that start?”

Finally, Aziraphale smiled. “_Well.”_

By dawn, Aziraphale was three bottles deep. Kralel was lagging at two, but had been regularly sobering himself up.

Aziraphale had _not_. Aziraphale seemed determined to discorporate himself through alcohol poisoning. Kralel had already miracled him upright.

They had both, over the course of the small hours, stripped down to their underwear. Aziraphale’s were some knee-length Victorian affair; Kralel’s were Calvin Klein, because they were the only ones he could remember seeing in an advert. Their clothes lay in sodden heaps around the bookshop, gently steaming.

“Dun think ‘sany more brandy. Plum wine. You’ll like plum wine,” Aziraphale promised as he staggered up. His body was pale, with a layer of softness around his hips and tummy. It was marred by five jagged scars: two on his back, either side of his spine; one on the left shoulder, one on the right, and one across the back of the neck. “Where’s the bloody- Found it! Here. Here, hold out your glass.”

Aziraphale poured out measures for them with both hands on the bottle, tried to sit in his chair, and fell onto the floor. “Oof!”

“Here, here,” said Kralel, and pulled him back to lean against the sofa on the floor. This was the position he had assumed an hour before, and found it suited. He tried the plum wine. “Mmm. ‘Sreally nice. ‘Slike… fruity.”

“_Isn’t_ _it_? Isn’t it just?” Aziraphale took a generous mouthful, and leant his head back against the sofa cushion. “Mmm. ‘Sfrom China. ‘Snice.”

“Nice. Nisssssse,” Kralel tried, and laughed.

“Nice.”

“_Nice_.”

Aziraphale giggled. “_You’re_ nice. Was so angry, when, you know. ‘Nother angel. In _my_ bookshop. But you’re nice. Saved my life.” He waggled a finger. “Very important. Very good job.”

“Aww, ‘Ziraphale!” Kralel said, and put his arm around the other angel. “’Sall right. Couldn’t let that bastard… ‘Sfine.”

“No, no. I was _angry_, and you’re actually. You’re actually _all right_,” said Aziraphale and patted his forehead. It was a struggle. “Even if you _swear_.”

“_You_ swear.”

“Dun swear.”

“You _do, _you just say… say zounds or God above, but I can hear you swearing. The _secret_ swearing.”

“Ahh, well. Secret swearing. Secrets…” Aziraphale took a long draught. “Secrets… Kralel. ‘Svery bad. Secrets. It’s like… silver. You know silver? Tarnishes. My secrets. I’ve got. I’ve got secrets.”

Kralel sobered himself _right_ up, stone-cold. He kept his arm across Aziraphale’s back. “Secrets?”

“Can’t tell you. Can’t tell anyone. If they know, they’ll… It'd be so bad. Everything would- I don’t mind losing anything, Kralel. ‘Cept God. Can’t lose Her. Can’t lose Her. If She wants me here then. Then here’s better.”

“What about Heaven?”

Aziraphale tried to focus on him, going cross-eyed. He unsteadily tried to top up both their glasses. “What ‘bout Heaven?”

“I mean… do you miss it?”

Aziraphale considered this while he upended the bottle of plum wine into his glass, and then rolled it across the floor. “I miss… When I was at Her Throne. Sapphire Throne. Could just, look up. _Hello. Hello, God._ And She looks down, and, _Hello, Aziraphale!_ … miss that. But not… not the rest of it.”

“But…” Kralel said. He sipped the plum wine, and sober it tasted too sweet. Rotten, and cloying. A minute ago it had been nectar. “Don’t you want to go back? Aren’t you lonely here?”

Aziraphale gave him a look which suggested Kralel was being very stupid. “Course am. Course I’m _lonely_. But it’s different. It’s… Have books here. 'Cold and sure friends...' Have tea, and, and plum wine. Music. Go t’opera. Go to t’Admiral Duncan. Chocolate! And… soft things. Pretty things. None of that up there. Only angels. Only all the… all the angels. Looking at me.”

“Nahhh,” Kralel lied. “Not looking at you.”

“They are. They _are_. Don’t like me." Aziraphale swiped at his face. "There’s… ’Starnished silver, again. _Contempt. _Corrodes, Kralel. 'Soon as you’re tarnished, starts corroding you. Angels shouldn’t be tarnished. You’re either gold, or… or you’re lead. Heavy, drop right down. Where’s tarnished silver go, eh?” He took a gold signet ring from his little finger. “See? _Gold_. ‘Swhat I should be. You are. You’re n’angel. _I’m_ n’angel. But not gold.”

Putting his ring back on took three tries, and he had to concentrate on raising the glass to his lips. “I mean, here. Here. You go round, go all _hello_, and humans look at you, and they think, idiot. You’re an idiot. And you can just think, oh! Oh, lovely humans. They don’t know. Don’t know what’s _real_. But when _angels_ look at you, and _angels_ think, oh, idiot, well. They do know. 'Sreal, then. So, it’s… 'slonely here, but ’sa different lonely. Loneliness here is no one looking at you. Loneliness there is… is everyone looking at you, and hating you. You see? ‘Sbetter here, still. Even with everything.”

Kralel felt sick. “Yeah. I can see.”

Aziraphale nodded, eyes closed. “’Sbetter. Just going to… Just on the floor. For a sec…” He carried on nodding, and Kralel realised he was falling asleep. He eased Aziraphale onto the carpet, and head on one of the plump sofa cushions. He took the paisley throw off and tucked it around Aziraphale.

The tea was cold; he binned it. He binned the empty bottles too. He put their soaked clothes into the sink to deal with later. On the desk was the sword and the dagger, both gleaming malevolently at him.

He’d healed the grazes on Aziraphale’s face. Now he miracled the alcohol out of his system. When Aziraphale woke up, he’d have no memory of the end of the night, but no hangover either. Kralel assured himself it was a kindness. 


	10. Chapter 10

Aziraphale insisted on bringing the hellblade up to Heaven himself. He was pale and fretful, telling Kralel a dozen times to be careful, not to go outside, to be on the lookout. He left with the hellblade in a sealed sandwich bag and a padded shoe-box, and was back within three hours.

“How did it go? What did they say?”

“Gabriel said well done. Asked how you were, I told him how well you’d done,” Aziraphale said. Despite his words, he was as tight as a coiled spring, picking things up and putting them down again, flicking at light and kettle switches, selecting books and abandoning them. “They’ve sent it to the Quartermaster, and he’ll see that it gets to the Weapon Technology Department. They’ll want to examine it, start developing armour against it, something like that. The important thing is that it’s safe.”

He read in silence for the rest of the day and well into the night, drinking tisanes instead of tea and eating chocolate buttons, and Kralel knew better than to disturb him.

*

The beginning of December brought Hanukkah, and Aziraphale brought out a beautiful, three hundred year old menorah. It was made of solid silver, and had a back showing snakes, winged lions, palms and pomegranates in gold filigree. A tree curled up the back to hold the _shamash. _This Kralel lit, after Aziraphale lit the day’s candle. Aziraphale had actually cleaned one of the bookshop’s windows, so that they could place the menorah there. The Good Egg restaurant nearby took in plenty of sufganiyot and pontshkes, and they went down every other day to stock up. The first night Aziraphale gave Kralel a dreidel and chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. Aziraphale won most of these back from him once he taught him how to play. Kralel asked to use Richard’s phone at work on the second day, and was able to source an eight-day selection of teas, roundly winning the competition. They split the gelt in half every night, and shared a pot made with each of the teas.

Kralel didn’t know if he could survive another holiday of presents and food and drink so soon after Hanukkah, but Aziraphale said that Christmas distracted people from the darkness and the cold, and so their jobs tended to be easier. Aziraphale cleaned a _second_ window, and in this one placed a Christmas tree with ancient rainbow fairy lights, once the menorah had been cleaned and polished (by Kralel, obviously; Aziraphale said he needed to learn how to do it) and lovingly wrapped in its stately purple velvet again. He made Kralel read _The Night Before Christmas_, and placed a small pile of wrapped gifts underneath the tree. Kralel didn't even need to see it to guess that at least one was a book.

Aziraphale said that on the years he wasn’t distracted by Hastur he helped serve food in St. Patrick’s RC Church, and Kralel could join him this year. There was a lot of wine, and dry turkey meat and potatoes and vegetables. And gravy all over it. Once the guests had eaten, the volunteers could sit and have a late Christmas dinner. Back at the bookshop, they polished off a bottle of Cointreau between the two of them, and opened their presents. Aziraphale had indeed given him a book. Kralel tore the paper off it. “… a Bible.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale said, excited. “I thought it would be good for you to have your own, for reference. I've written a note, in the front. But…” He had also given Kralel a copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_, which he said he thought Kralel would like ("it's a rollicking good story"), and a vibrant green plant in a bright blue pot. He said that if Kralel was going to be around for a while, he could have some of his own things about the place as well. Finally, he gestured towards a far smaller parcel. “This one next.”

Kralel obediently opened it. It was a children’s toy – a tiny white van. “So you can have a van just like Richard,” Aziraphale said, with a voice that dripped treacle, and Kralel laughed.

“I should throw it at your bloody head!”

“I thought you wanted a van!” Aziraphale said, and with a snap of his fingers turned on his halo.

“Pffft,” Kralel said, and pulled out a parcel from behind his back. “All right, turn the headlights off.”

The halo vanished, and the bookshop was warm and dark and cosy again. “For me? You bought me a present?” said Aziraphale, and took it with the excitement of a child. “It’s not a book?”

“Nope.” Kralel beamed as Aziraphale neatly tore the wrapping paper, revealing a mobile phone box.

“Oh! Oh, my dear, that’s very kind of you! Wherever did you get the money?”

“From working with Richard, of course. Human jobs actually _pay you money._ He showed me which one to get. It’s got money already on it, and it can go on the _Internet_. I’ve got one just like it,” Kralel said, and took his out of his pocket to demonstrate. “I’ve already set it up – well, Richard helped. It’s got my phone number in there, and I have yours. So now you don’t need to worry if one of us is out.”

The hesitation had vanished from Aziraphale’s face; he smiled widely instead. “That’s so thoughtful. Thank you, my dear.”

“It can even play music, so you don’t need to worry about finding gramophone records anymore.”

“I like my gramophone!”

“Yes, but you can play music on this that you’d never be able to find a gramophone record of. Like…” He found the Youtube video that he had bookmarked, which purported to be the oldest known piece of notated music in the world. He turned up the volume and set the phone-television playing.

Aziraphale gasped. Actually gasped. He lay on his front on the carpet in the centre of the bookshop, and stared, transfixed, as the music played.

It didn’t have much of a tune, and no rhythm at all. It wasn’t a patch on the music Richard played in the van, thought Kralel. But the music in the van, or on the gramophone, had never made tears pour down Aziraphale’s cheeks, or engendered such a look of wonder.

“I remember this,” he croaked softly. “Idolatrous nonsense. It’s about offerings to the wife of the moon god. Whenever I heard it I knew I had my work cut out for me. Always did, in Ugarit… Oh, I don’t know why I’m crying. Just… I haven’t heard it for so long.” He looked at Kralel in awe. “Is there more?”

“_Oh_ yeah,” Kralel replied with a grin.

*

And then, _then_, there was New Years. Kralel was finally invited up into the flat, and the bathroom. The snake of guilt squirmed in his abdomen. They were going to a party at the Admiral Duncan, and according to Aziraphale glitter and eyeliner were compulsory.

“Are you sure we’re allowed?” Kralel said.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” replied Aziraphale. “Your eyes are going to look absolutely brilliant. Gold glitter, black liner, it’ll match perfectly. And some purple on the lids, to contrast… There. What do you think?”

Aziraphale beamed proudly, and Kralel stared at himself in the mirror. He never looked at his reflection much at all, since his early experimentation, and tonight he barely recognised himself. The glitter flashed and sparkled like golden stars, but his eyes were brighter.

Aziraphale sprinkled more glitter onto his hair. “How do you want it?”

“… I was thinking long,” said Kralel, and after a moment of concentration, he had thick, red hair reaching down past his shoulders.

“Oh, gorgeous,” Aziraphale said. “That’s lovely. Now, these are colognes. It’ll be a close press, and humans sometimes can tell that we don’t smell human. Put one of these on instead, and then they’ll just think you smell of cologne. Try them, see which one you like best.”

Kralel ignored the one that had attacked him on his first day, but obediently tested the others while Aziraphale did his own make-up. Aziraphale had opted for pink and gold, which made his sea-coloured eyes look more blue. He was wearing a pink waistcoat instead of his usual taupe or beige, and a sparkling bow tie in honour of the occasion. “Right.”

They arrived two hours early, and went in the back entrance, to avoid any queues. Long-term patron’s privilege. Aziraphale started chatting to some of his friends, and Kralel went to buy the first drinks.

Doc grinned at him from behind the bar. “Hello, Goldeneye!”

This was a new one. “Is that a upgrade from Red?”

“Definitely upgrade – though I’m loving the wig. Looks totally real. But no, the eyes, especially all dolled up. Plus it’s the best of the Brosnans.”

“Brosnan?”

“You know, _Goldeneye_? The James Bond film?”

Kralel shook his head. “I’ve never seen a James Bond film.”

“_No._ Oh my God. Oi! Oi, Angel! Goldeneye here’s never seen a Bond film!”

“Well, neither have I!” said Aziraphale. “Hello, darling, you look lovely.”

“So do you, but you’re not getting off that hook that easily. I’ll lend you some DVDs, yeah? Start with _Dr. No_, then _Goldfinger_, then _Goldeneye_, finish with _Casino Royale_, and then you can have the rest.”

Looking back, this was to be a far more momentous event that any of them knew.

*

By the end of January, Kralel had watched every Bond film twice, and was on his third run. The television Aziraphale had originally bought did not have a DVD player, but as soon as Kralel expected there to be some way to play the discs which Doc had given to him, a panel opened, and there it was.

Aziraphale was attempting to do Dry January, which meant that the frequent trips to the Admiral Duncan so that Kralel could discuss the latest films he’d seen became an exercise in torture. He insisted that Kralel would become even more unbearable than he currently was if his only input was _James Bond_, so he brought Kralel to the theatre, to the concert, to art galleries and little antique shops.

They both knew their period of grace could be over any day.

With this in mind, Aziraphale asked Hannah in Brewed Awakening (his own smartphone tutor) to help him to buy some padded sparring swords. He had several Renaissance swordplay manuals, and started to put Kralel through his paces. At first it was exceptionally boring, repeating steps or blocks over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over, until Aziraphale was completely satisfied. But by the time March arrived, they had started to go up to the roof to spar. This was more fun, but also far more painful. Aziraphale was a menace.

Kralel liked March. The snowdrops of January and February had been lovely, very heavenly, but daffodils were another thing altogether. And crocuses were even more glorious.

March was good, but apparently April began with a day dedicated to playing tricks on your friends. Kralel was an excellent audience to Richard’s stories, and between them they had cooked up several for Aziraphale.

He didn’t realise how much Aziraphale had changed over the last few months. He smiled more readily, and drank less. He stood up straighter. He rarely lay on the sofa for hours at a time, staring at the ceiling. He chatted to Kralel, and to Doc, and to Hannah and Jose, and even, occasionally, to customers. He would tell Kralel how much he was looking forward to taking him to see _The Tempest_ or _The Bacchae_ for the first time, and had bought a print from a Burne-Jones exhibition at the Tate. He and Kralel’s Christmas plant both looked… healthy.

There was more than a week to go before April Fool’s Day when Kralel came into the shop from work, and instantly realised how much Aziraphale had changed. He realised it, because suddenly Aziraphale looked just like he had when Kralel had first arrived. He was small, and pinched. His face was wan, and his shoulders were practically up around his ears. His eyes were a dull grey, and a leaden gloom lay over the shop. The plant was drooping. “He’s back,” Aziraphale said, unnecessarily. “I can feel him. He’s back.”

Kralel locked the door behind him. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song which Kralel finds on Youtube is Hurrian Hymn 6.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm genuinely sorry for this one, guys.

Aziraphale scried for the rest of the day, but it was a half-hearted attempt. Kralel tried to tempt him with tea and chocolate digestives, which he munched joylessly as he watched the silver bowl.

“Nothing,” he said as sunset approached. “I haven’t seen a thing.”

“So no bomb,” Kralel said.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. It’s not the usual pattern…” Aziraphale suddenly looked up, like a hound catching a scent. He pulled his sword out from under the table, and went to the front door.

Hastur stood in the porch. He didn’t look at all different to the night Kralel had beheaded him. “Aziraphale.”

“Duke. Forgive me if I don’t invite you in.” Aziraphale had carved a Shaddai into the lintel, and Kralel could feel the force of it as Hastur, without touching, tested it.

“I’ve got a deal for you,” Hastur said, uncharacteristically serious. “You’ve got something of mine and I want it back. Give me the hellblade, and we’ll call it a day. You go about your disgusting business, and I’ll go about mine. We don’t need to know the other exists.”

Aziraphale spread his hands. The effect was somewhat undone by the fact that one of them held a longsword. “I don’t have it.”

“Don’t lie!” Hastur suddenly shouted. “Give me the _fucking knife_!”

“I wouldn’t even if I did have it. Which I don’t. We don’t make deals with the Other Side, Duke. I delivered it straight up to Heaven after you left it in my wing.”

Hastur went very, very still. His face was making some very interesting shapes, Kralel thought hysterically. “Right. I suppose the Game begins again tomorrow, doesn’t it?” He looked at Kralel. “And we have a new player joining us.”

“He’s not playing.”

“He very, very much is, Aziraphale. And you know it. As soon as he cut off my fucking head, he entered the game. Didn’t you? I’m looking forward to playing with _you_. I’m going to teach you not to stick your nose in where neither of us wanted it. Starting by cutting it off.”

Kralel lifted his chin defiantly. “I won’t regret saving Aziraphale.”

“Right. Saving him for what, I wonder?” Hastur said, and winked at him, unsmiling. He looked to Aziraphale. “Take some advice from an old fuck, my angel. A cubed B. See you tomorrow night.”

With a flash of darkness and a smell of sulphur, he was gone.

Aziraphale slammed the door shut, and locked it. He turned around, and raised his eyebrows at Kralel. “Yes? What?”

Kralel was gaping. “You had _sex_ with him?”

Aziraphale looked disgusted, and slid the sword back under the desk with more force than usual. “Of course I didn’t. Don’t be absolutely absurd.”

Aziraphale’s voice brooked no argument, so Kralel switched gears, like an experienced interrogator. “What does A cubed B mean?

Aziraphale snorted humourlessly. “A, A, A, B. All Angels Are Bastards. Presumably Hastur needed a three letter variant for when he’s a frog.”

“Ah,” said Kralel. “Right.”

*

The next day was a long, ordinary day. Kralel went to work with Richard, who didn’t know why he suddenly took no joy in the April Fool’s plans. When he came back to the bookshop he made Jose his standard tea with six sugars, so that Aziraphale didn’t have to look up from the scrying bowl. As twilight came upon them, Aziraphale poured the water out, put the bowl back under the sink, and checked Kralel’s water pistol. The sword stayed under the desk. “Only in extremis, remember. I wish you’d stay in the bookshop.”

“Not a chance. As he said, I’m playing too, now.”

“But the holy water would protect you.”

“And who’ll protect you?”

“Me,” said Aziraphale.

“There’s no point in arguing. You know me now. I’d just follow you anyway, so I might as well stick close.”

Aziraphale gave him a tired smile. “All right, my dear.”

It was easier with two of them. Aziraphale took the right side, and Kralel took the left. Hastur led them on a merry chase up into Fitzrovia, and then down past the British Museum. The pace was fast, and it was barely ten by the time Hastur stopped in Soho Square.

“Getting tired?” Kralel crowed. Aziraphale silenced him with a gesture.

Hastur lurked like a champion by the faux-Tudor hut. “Bored. I think Aziraphale was right. I think this Game’s got old.”

“It’s done,” a voice behind them said conversationally. Kralel gripped Aziraphale’s arm as another demon sauntered past them. His eyes shifted colour even in the darkness. Kralel was reminded of Aziraphale’s Christmas lights.

“Ligur,” Aziraphale said, equally casually. “I haven’t seen you since Damascus.”

“Yeah. Good fight, that.”

“Rather average. I did like that mint lemonade they made, though.”

“As you brought a friend, I thought I was allowed one too,” Hastur said.

The air was electric. Aziraphale’s muscles were like iron under Kralel’s hand. “What’s done?” Kralel asked quietly.

Hastur grinned at him. “He’s not as stupid as he looks, is he, Aziraphale? You took something of mine, so I’ve taken something of yours. Tit for tat.”

Aziraphale looked at Kralel, as though to check he was still there, but the demon called Ligur laughed. “It was _so_ easy. Gave the sweary one a hundred pounds and some of our homegrown accelerant, unlocked the door for him, and in he went.”

Kralel’s stomach dropped to the ground, and then tried to climb up through his throat. He and Aziraphale looked south, towards the bookshop. A dull orange glow illuminated an evilly twisting column of smoke.

Aziraphale made a noise like a man receiving a mortal wound.

He was already running, everything else forgotten, and Kralel pelted after him. The hysterical laughter of the two demons shrieked after them.

Greek Street was alight with flashing blue and writhing yellow and furious red. “No!” Aziraphale cried, as he ran down the street to where the fire engines and the police car were parked haphazardly at the corner. “No, no, no, please, no!”

Kralel spent a miracle to catch up with him. Aziraphale ran straight towards the bookshop, and Kralel knew with perfect certainty that the other angel would run right inside. He grabbed Aziraphale around the waist. “No!”

Aziraphale screamed in fury. “Let me go!”

“No! No, it could be hellfire!”

“I don’t care!” Aziraphale struggled wildly. “Let me go! Damn you, let me go!”

“No!” Kralel pulled them both down to the ground, and wrapped his long legs around Aziraphale as well as his arms. If Aziraphale brought out his wings right now, some part of him thought, it’d probably be an instant discorporation. Every bloody bone broken, at least.

He suspected it would still hurt less than what Aziraphale was feeling right now. He was keening, a wild animal noise. It was a sound that was old, older than everyone else here, older than this city, older than this planet, older than this universe. Every single human in the street suddenly stopped talking, without knowing why. Dogs stopped barking. Babies far away stopped crying. The only sounds were the hoses, the roar of the fire, and the wail of an angel screaming his agony in the face of an uncaring world, and a silent God.

“I know,” Kralel whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. “I know. I know.”

“Let me go! For the love of God let me go!”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Kralel tightened his grip. “I can’t.”

“I hate you! Fuck you!” Aziraphale shouted. There was a smash inside the shop, and the oculus fell in a glittering rainful of glass.

Aziraphale went completely limp, with a long wail. Kralel buried his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. He had only heard something like that twice before: once, when the Rebels Fell, and the second time, when the Wrath of God had taken Aziraphale’s aquiline head.

Kralel gathered Aziraphale up and wrapped his arms around him again, in an embrace, rather than a restraint. Aziraphale was sobbing, howling against Kralel’s chest.

The flames seemed to be guttering already, under the assault of the fire-hoses, and of Aziraphale’s sprinkler system. Steam and smoke mingled in an unholy union. If it was hellfire… when would it be safe, for Aziraphale to step inside again? Angels didn’t know how hellfire was summoned or created; the homegrown accelerant that Ligur had mentioned? It didn’t matter, Kralel thought.

He looked back beyond the red trucks, to the police car. There, soot-smudged and smoke-stained, was Jose. He was flanked by two officers, and a paramedic was seeing to a burn on his leg.

When Aziraphale stopped to draw breath, he looked to where Kralel was staring. He stood up like a puppet being jerked upright. Kralel rose with him, sick dread pounding at his temples. “Aziraphale…”

Jose looked wretchedly at Aziraphale. “Sorry, vicar.”

Rage was building in Aziraphale with _noise_, and _light_, and Kralel physically shoved himself in between the angel and the arsonist to stop Aziraphale from killing him, and probably every other human within a hundred metre radius. “No! No, Aziraphale!”

Kralel _shoved_ him back, with more than human strength, and Aziraphale rocked. “Do you even know what you’ve done?!” Aziraphale roared past him at Jose, and Kralel shoved him back again.

“He doesn’t! That’s the point! That’s the-“

He saw on Aziraphale’s face that the other angel knew this perfectly well. It suddenly struck him that it was desperately unfair that Aziraphale wasn’t even allowed to properly rage at this selfish, unpleasant human being, whom he had always treated with compassion and dignity, and who had burnt down the only thing tethering him to sanity for a hundred measly fucking quid. “Come on. Aziraphale, come on, let’s step back. Step back.”

It was _worse_ that Aziraphale just allowed Kralel to drag him. Without the rage, there was nothing to stand against the grief; Aziraphale felt more like a dead weight every second.

“Are… either of you the owner of this establishment?” one of the firemen said.

“He is. I live there,” Kralel said. “He’s in shock.”

“Right. I’m ever so sorry. We’ve managed to save most of the structure, save for the skylight. He was smart, putting in a good sprinkler system, given the flammability of the materials-“

Aziraphale made some kind of groan. He was still looking up at the fireman, and it seemed to be unconscious. He was slack-jawed, eyes unstaring.

“Of the books. Yes,” said Kralel.

“Yeah. We were able to get here quickly enough that we could stop the fire climbing to the upper level, except on the western side. The back rooms are mostly okay, but there’ll be smoke and water damage to the rest of the things in there.”

“When will it be safe to go in? There’s a lot of historical objects in there.”

“Not until tomorrow, at the very earliest. You got a friend you can stay with?”

“I need to go in now,” Aziraphale said, slowly. It sounded like he was forcing the words out, one at a time. “I can miracle some of it. It won’t be the same, but I can save- I can save-“

The fireman looked down at him in alarm, and Kralel mentally suggested _very strongly_ that the fireman should look at him instead. “If there aren’t any flames, let us go in with you. Please. We can help.”

“There are, and we don’t know the extent of the damage to the floor. Tomorrow, we’ll see.”

The smoke was making Kralel’s eyes water. “All right. We’ll... Let’s go to the Admiral Duncan, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Or at least, he jerked it to the side. “Want to stay here.”

“You can’t. It’s not safe. It’s not healthy. Please. Please. I’m begging you.” Inside, there he could see licks of flame. Even one would be enough to destroy Aziraphale entirely, if it was hellfire. He prayed to God for forgiveness, and switched to Hebrew. “When you begged the Archangels not to cut off your heads. That’s how I am begging you now. If we are friends, let me lead you away from this place.”

Despite the heat of the fire, Kralel felt cold. Aziraphale looked at him after a second, and wasn’t even angry. Something inside of him collapsed with an audible, shuddering sigh. He allowed Kralel to lead him away by the hand, as docile as a lamb.

*

Doc wasn’t on the bar in the Admiral Duncan, but this man knew Aziraphale too. Kralel vaguely remembered from the New Year party that his name was Anthony. He gave them the keys for the rooms above as soon as Kralel explained what had happened, along with two glasses and a bottle of whisky. Kralel’s head spun at the instant, easy generosity and kindness of it. He blessed the man for the length of his days, and somehow got Aziraphale up the stairs.

At the top of the building was a room with sofas and some boxes and lockers. Kralel got Aziraphale to sit on the sofa, and didn’t stop him when the other angel opened the bottle of whisky with shaking hands. Kralel performed a miracle so that the bottle wouldn’t run dry. After all, while Aziraphale was sitting here, drinking, he wasn’t killing himself.

Neither of them spoke for a full hour. In that time, Aziraphale finished a normal bottle’s worth of whisky, and a little more besides. “Owned it since 1800,” he suddenly said. “Had n. N’opening party. Rented it before. From 1607. Flight of the Earls. Left Ireland, came back here. It was _my_ bookshop. And then, then. Eventually. Had earnt enough money to buy the whole building. _My_ money. Not Heaven money.”

“We can do it up again,” Kralel promised. “Make it beautiful.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Some of those books are… irreplaceable. Irreplaceable.”

“Some of them will be all right. The fireman said the backroom was mostly okay, and your scroll of the Apocalypse is in that airtight thing. _That’ll_ be just fine. Some of them will be all right, repairable.”

“_These fragments I have shored against my ruins_,” said Aziraphale, and started to weep. He wept like an old man, hiccoughing, eyes open, staring at nothing.

Kralel had never known a human body could hurt so much. He felt like his organs were bleeding, something deep where he couldn’t touch.

“I always knew it’d be fire,” Aziraphale said. He pressed the bottle against his cheek. “Always. Hadduh be. Tsk. _Had to be_ fire.”

“Why?” Kralel asked in a whisper. “Because… because of hell?”

“Spft! No!” Aziraphale said. “No, that’s. That’s _hellfire_. This is _fire_. ‘S different. This is the pure stuff. The… the dangerous, beautiful, pure stuff. Sun fire, you know? Had to be fire, because of contrapasso. Oh, God!”

“I don’t understand, Aziraphale…”

“No, because you don’t _read_. None of you up there _read_. It means to suffer against. Suffer opposite. Literally. Semantically it means that the punishment fits the crime. It’s a contrast, or a- a joke. Sin turned on you. Counterpoise. Fire to punish my secret sin.”

Kralel felt a great wave of terror building up inside him. “But I don’t understand – why _fire_? Why not flooding, or…”

His heart recoiled. He touched Aziraphale’s hand. “What’s your secret sin, Aziraphale? Why fire?”

“Because _I gave it to them_. I gave them fire! I, She gave it to me!” Aziraphale finished his whisky and poured another one, right to the brim. His hands were shaking. “She… I was Hers. I was meant to protect the Garden. Protect the Tree. Oh, God.” His shoulders heaved, and tears poured down his face. “She gave me a flaming sword. And, and they played a trick on me. Eve spoke to me to distract me, and Adam picked the apple, and then they ran away, and ate it togther. They were laughing. They didn’t know, then – they didn’t realise…”

“What did you do with the _sword_, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked at him, tarnished silver eyes into gold. “I gave it away.”

Kralel’s eyes widened. He couldn’t breathe. “You _what_?”

“I _gave it awa_y!” Aziraphale wailed. “You, you don’t understand. It was about to rain. The _first_ rain. And they only had their… their little fig leaves. God gave them little… Little skins. For clothes. And she was _expecting_. None of us even knew what that _meant_. They looked so cold… And they were like… like you, when you first arrived. We all were. We didn’t know a thing, and no one taught us. There were _wild animals_ outside Eden, and the storm, and I thought, you know, _I_ don’t need it, not like they do. Where’s the harm? So I just, just gave it to him – to Adam. Said, look, if you come back there’s going to be an almighty row, but you might be needing this sword, so here it is, don’t bother to thank me, just do everyone a big favour and don’t let the sun go down on you here.” He took a great mouthful of whisky, and scrunched up his face at the taste. “You weren’t there. They looked so cold…”

This was_ it_? This was Aziraphale’s _big secret_? This was the thing he was terrified about anyone finding out about?

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. It was hysterical. It was heart-breaking. Kralel reached over and gripped Aziraphale’s hand. “_Aziraphale_. That was _kind_ of you. That’s not a _sin_. This is what you’ve been worried about, all this time? Does anyone else know?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Never told anyone. But She… She asked me. Where it was. And I said I didn’t know. That I’d lost it. Put it down somewhere. It, it wasn’t a lie. Because I didn’t have it any more, and I didn’t know where Adam was, so I didn’t know where the sword was. And I had put it down, just… just into his hand.”

He took a great shuddering breath, and shook his head. “I lied to Her. I lied to the only- _my only_\- And She’s never spoken to me since, you see? Why would She? Bloody liar. They cut off my eagle’s head, so I couldn’t ascend. Not a Cherub anymore. Couldn’t go to beg Her to forgive me. Not allowed in, to… I used to sit at Her Feet. I was so happy. Just to sit at Her feet, and look up at Her. You can’t imagine it. The _safety_ of it. ‘How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings…’ Resting at the heart of Rest. Oh, God!”

He sobbed, and Kralel took the whisky glass from him, so he didn’t break it. He put it on the table, and placed his arm gently around Aziraphale’s shaking shoulders. He remembered the beheadings, of course. He didn’t think he should bring that up. “It’s all right. You were just being _kind_, Aziraphale. You don’t need to worry about it. And, look, you can’t lie to God, can you? By definition! She’s omniscient. It was… plausible deniability. You know. _I have to ask, for the forms_, wink wink.”

Aziraphale looked at him. Soot-smudged, tear-streaked, and yet he was looking at _Kralel_ with pity. “You’re kind,” he said wearily. “But no. I lied. I disobeyed, and I lied. It’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? I don’t want to Fall. I don’t want to become like Hastur! I don’t want to be like him!”

“You won’t be! You _couldn’t_ be! Come on.”

Aziraphale reached over Kralel’s arm for the glass, and finished the whisky in his second swallow. “She’s being kind to me. Not casting me down. But this – Hastur, all this. ‘S my punishment. I deserve it. You, you won’t have picked up on this, but Gabriel? Gabriel doesn’t _actually_ like me, very much. I think he knows. I think She told him. Must have, or, or why would they make me stay down here, all this time? Keep sending me down? But then I’ve been thinking, now. Maybe it’s all right. Maybe I’m forgiven. Because they sent you to help me. Maybe it means I’ve been doing the right thing, you see? … Then this. Then the fire. And I don’t know again. I don’t know, Kralel.”

For the first time, Kralel felt older than Aziraphale. The other angel was staring at him with such naked need for reassurance. “You’ve been in Heaven all this time, you must- must have heard something? Policy, or… or just the current thought? Something She’s said, about all this? All I want is to do her Ineffable Will. I really do. I think that She must want the best for us, for all of us, mustn’t She? In the end?”

Kralel swallowed painfully. “… yeah. Sure.”

“’S all I want. For Her to say, ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant.’ Like the parable. I heard it and I thought, oh. _Oh_. Can you imagine it? God looking at you, and loving you. Telling you you did well. ‘The humblest, the most childlike, the most creaturely of pleasures… the specific pleasure of the inferior.’ Like a dumb beast, at Her feet…”

And Kralel felt icy, icy cold. Because he had never, for a single second, felt a drop of desire for that. “You really want that? Really?”

“I think so… I don’t know. I want to _rest_. I’m so tired, Kralel. That was the last time I remember feeling safe. Remember feeling happy.”

“I don’t think She wants you to be a dumb beast,” Kralel said. “You’re too clever for that. You’re _interesting_. You like things, and you like people, and you’re kind to them. And a bastard, sometimes, but a funny bastard. God doesn’t want you to be a dumb beast, She wants you to be Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked horribly unsure. His mouth twisted. “I don’t think Aziraphale is a very good thing to be,” he said softly.

“She made you, so She must think so.” Kralel felt as though his body was unmaking itself; he felt a hot prickling in the corners of his eyes, and had no idea whatsoever what it foretold. “_I _think so.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and smiled. He leant his forehead against Kralel’s, because the effort of keeping it up on his own had become too great. “God bless you.”

Though their touching foreheads their spirits mingled, like tendrils of frankincense smoke.

Kralel never knew who started it. One minute they were alive in each other, Aziraphale’s drunken openness and Kralel’s desire to reassure bleeding one into the other. And then they were kissing with lips as well, pressing close, so that their breath mingled too: physical and spiritual union. Aziraphale’s hands cradling his jaw as though he, Kralel, was precious. Kralel’s hand fisting in Aziraphale’s hair. He was hungry for something and had no idea what.

_This is wrong._

They broke apart. Aziraphale smiled at him, swaying, and Kralel caught him before he toppled forwards. Aziraphale’s face was wet with tears, but his cheeks and lips were pink, his smile was warm with gratitude. He was open, and trusting. Kralel could have asked him anything, he knew with an interrogator’s instinct, and Aziraphale would tell him. Because he thought his friend was asking.

_This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong._

Aziraphale was easy to miracle asleep; he was 90% there already. Just like the night he’d killed Hastur, Kralel miracled the alcohol from the other angel. No hangover in the morning.

And then he left, and went straight to Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'These fragments I have shored against my ruins' is from "The Waste Land" by T. S. Eliot.
> 
> ‘The humblest, the most childlike, the most creaturely of pleasures… the specific pleasure of the inferior’ is from the essay "The Weight of Glory" by C. S. Lewis.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a brief mention of vomit in this one, for any emetophobes. I am reading all the comments and I appreciate them all so much, but I am in the grip of some unrelated writing Hell, so I hope you'll forgive me if I post this chapter and fly back to it. I will catch up with all the comments soon!

In Hell it is always dark, and in Heaven it is always light. Always daytime, never night. For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.

This means that there is no warm place to crawl and breathe out, just for a few hours. There is no hope for hearts-ease. There is no reprieve.

In Heaven, no one ever said, “Maybe things won’t seem so bad in the morning,” or, “That can wait until the morning.”

In Heaven, it is always The Morning.

*

It was strange, the things perspective could do to you. Heaven had never felt so vast before, so cold and empty. It made Kralel’s heart ache, when he remembered the bookshop, with its worn furniture and little corners filled with beautiful things, with its tea in warm pots and low lights. He was leaving the London night behind below him, brown and black and orange, and the escalator brought him up into the light.

With him, he carried the overwhelming smell of smoke.

Angels greeted him with nods and smiles of recognition as he walked through the Heavenly Peacekeeping offices, past the training yards and the Judgement Theatre and the barracks and the armoury. Old friends from Earth Surveillance and Angelic Corruption greeted him, and he was in such a daze that by the time he remembered their names most of them had walked or zoomed past him.

Gabriel oversaw several departments, so he carried on through the general offices to the massive room where the archangels met subordinates. One wall of glass looked out over all the cities of the world, and the transparent ceiling above arched over them, showing a mass of grey cloud.

There were windows on three side, facing out across the world. There was only one wall attached to the rest of the heavenly buildings, and this wall was not made of glass. This was made of steel, polished to the highest shine.

This was the best place to find Gabriel without an appointment. He knocked, and the door was opened unto him.

“Kralel!” Gabriel said, as soon as he saw him; he teleported across the huge room instantaneously, away from a desk covered in manilla folders. “Are you all right? You’re not scheduled to come up – has something happened? Has your cover been broken?”

“No, no, sir, nothing like that,” Kralel said. He let out a long, shaken breath; it had been easy to forget, on Earth, how kind Gabriel could be, how magnanimously solicitous. He didn’t realise how tight his chest had been; the strain that living with a lie for six months had done to him. “Demons burnt down the bookshop. Normal fire.”

“But you’re unhurt?” Gabriel asked, and when Kralel nodded he smiled. “That’s the important thing.”

“Yeah – we’re both fine,” Kralel said, as Gabriel led him towards the white leather sofa which Gabriel had conjured from nothing.

“Why would demons do that? Did they think you were inside?”

“No – it was revenge, for Aziraphale delivering the hellblade to you. They really want it back, and when he said he’d already given it to you… But that’s not why I’m here.”

“No?” Gabriel said, and looked concerned again. Kralel was the sole focus of those beautiful violet eyes. He felt a slight shiver of fear, as he did whenever one of the archangels looked too closely at him. He worried that they could still see the shadow of rot in him. “Then why are you up here, Kralel?”

He took a deep breath. “Sir, I’m here to… I think this investigation needs to stop.” No. He sat up straight, and made his voice firm. “It needs to stop.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows in surprise. “But you said your cover was secure!”

“It is. But there’s no _need_ for it. That’s my official statement, sir,” he said, feeling a little more confident again. “You sent me down there to see if he was corrupt. He’s not. I don’t know _how_ he’s not corrupt, having seen what he deals with down there, but he’s not.”

“Not corrupt?” Gabriel said.

“No. I mean, you and me, Divine Love, Justice, everything. Completely. All in. But down there they just feel more and more like _words_. Completely unconnected to reality. He’s clung to them by just… digging his fingernails in and refusing to let go of them.”

Gabriel frowned and spread his hands in complete, sincere confusion. “What?”

“I just mean that… I know he doesn’t _look_ the part, and he might be unorthodox in his approach, but his heart is in the right place. He’s a good angel. I think he’s one of the best I’ve ever met, actually, even if he _is_ eccentric. He _loves_ God, and he wants to do good in the world. That’s what’s important, isn’t it?”

“Kralel,” Gabriel said slowly. “You were there to observe and record. Not to make judgements.”

“Sir, with all due respect, of course I was! Had to judge what was worthwhile putting in a report, didn’t I?”

“Ah, yes, the reports. Excessive fondness of material possessions and voluntary intake of gross matter. Make-up – forbidden technology that the Watchers gave to Earth._You_ said that at the event to celebrate the passage of the globe around the sun you saw him _dancing_. And that’s just what we know about! That’s what he was willing to show to an angel he barely knew. We know he’s hiding something,” Gabriel said. “You’re an interrogator too, Kralel. He announces it with every word, every movement. Even the _dancing_ was in public, so what kind of depraved-”

Kralel made a desperate gesture with his hands. “He’s just anxious, he’s worried, he’s a worried being!”

“Angels don’t worry, buddy. Angels aren’t anxious. Angels have perfect faith, in every moment, that they are acting in accordance with Her will.” Gabriel pointed upwards to hammer this point home.

“But after the demotion anyone’d be scared,” Kralel argued. “That’s what we _rely_ on, sir, when we do the interrogations! It might not be ideal, but angels definitely worry. I mean, if we think of it in those terms, then why were _you_ worried that my cover had been blown earlier?”

Something shuttered down in Gabriel’s face. His smile was quite gone. “I wasn’t.” Kralel blinked at him in astonishment. “I was communicating my divinely ordained love for another member of the Host. If your time on Earth has made you interpret that as anxiety, that’s on you. Not me.”

Kralel’s stomach swooped as he tried to work this out. “Or… What about worrying that Aziraphale is corrupt? Why do we… we do we have an Angelic Corruption department, if you’re not worried about corruption?”

He blinked again, at the polished floor. His human body suddenly felt too small for him. “She’s omniscient. Why…?” He felt sick. How had he never asked that question, in 5000 years? His human body was reacting so oddly. He felt cold, but his shirt was stuck to his back with some liquid. It couldn’t have been rain, because his jacket was dry.

“Tell me about his relationship with Hastur,” Gabriel was saying. Kralel tried to pull himself back to reality from whatever precipice he felt he was on the edge of.

“Hastur? He hates him. Utterly despises him. He’d have holy watered him millennia ago if you’d have let him!”

“Is that another criticism, Kralel?”

“No, no. Sorry, sir. But Hastur was so eager to get the hellblade back that he offered to leave Aziraphale alone. To stop bloody torturing him. And Aziraphale said no, he’d already brought it up to you, and he’d do it again anyway.”

“Did he, now,” said Gabriel.

“That’s what I mean. He might be anxious but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have _faith_. That’s what I meant when I said that he’s clinging onto it. He talks all the time about the Ineffable Plan, says that we just have to hope that things work out in the end. He hopes even though he’s scared.”

Gabriel was frowning a little, thoughtfully. “What’s he scared of?”

Kralel sighed. “I think… us. He’s afraid of Falling. He said that’s the thing he wouldn’t be able to endure.”

“Yes, you said…” Gabriel brought out a file from behind his back, and opened it. “That he could endure losing anything but God. After you discorporated Duke Hastur, you wrote in your report that he asked Aziraphale whether he wanted to live, and he replied, ‘Just do it. Go on. Finish it.’” He looked at Kralel and raised his eyebrows.

“… he was just being defiant.”

“Was he? Because I think it doesn’t sound like anxiety. I think it sounds like despair. And despair is a sin.”

Kralel made a strangled noise of frustration. “How can despair be a sin?!”

“It’s one of the worst sins! It’s a complete lack of faith in God!” Gabriel snapped.

“How can he be guilty of a lack of faith in God if the only thing he couldn’t bear losing _is_ God?” Kralel asked. “He’s just been tormented for too long, he needs looking after, not another bloody interrogation!”

“Well, there we disagree _again._” Gabriel looked back down at the file. “The same night, the very same night, you said that he told you that he had a secret he couldn’t tell Heaven, that if we knew, it would ‘be so bad’.

“Oh, God,” Kralel said, with a vast exhalation of relief. “That wasn’t a _sin_, that was just the sword business! He’s built it up in his head to this vast terrible secret, that’s all, it’s nothi-“

“Kralel, buddy, hold up. Hold up.” Every word was perfectly cut, like crystal. Gabriel’s voice was careful, and quiet. “What about the sword business?”

“The sword, in Eden – he said you knew…” The look on Gabriel’s face screamed something different, and the world upended.

“About the sword? The flaming sword?” Gabriel’s purple eyes were alight with fire. “He said that he lost it. But now, apparently, he’s been keeping something a secret all this time.”

He tried to think of something. _Anything_. “No, he- he thought the demotion was for being tricked, that you’d forgotten he lost the sword and if you remembered-“

Gabriel reached out, and laid his hand flat across Kralel’s forehead, like a human mother checking her child for a fever. “You’re _lying_, Kralel.”

“No, no, I’m not! I’m not!” Kralel said. He tried to pull back, but he couldn’t. He was frozen under Gabriel’s relentless gaze.

“Did he give it to Hell? Is that it? He gave the Enemy divine weaponry?”

“No, he didn’t give it to Hell!” That was the truth, Gabriel would be able to tell that was the truth.

“Then who did he give it to?”

Kralel hesitated for an infinitesimal span of time. “He didn’t, he just lost it. Unh!” He twisted, head throbbing as Gabriel pressed harder.

“He gave it to the humans,” Gabriel said, and breathed out in wonder. He dropped his hand and looked into the middle distance. “He gave it to the _humans_. We’ve got him.”

Kralel sucked down a painful breath that he didn’t even need to take. “No, no. Sir, _please_. He was just being kind to them, it was a _kindness_-“

“We've got the little fucker. He’s been laughing at us all this time. Well, he’ll be laughing on the other side of his face now! Amazing work, Kralel - there'll be a commendation in this for you! Oho! Didn’t think he had it in him, to be honest. The little snake.” He stood up and straightened his tie. His face was bright with glory. “I have to tell the others. You stay here, I want you in on the interrogation. Anything he denies, you’ve been a witness to.”

Gabriel slapped Kralel on the back, and was gone.

Kralel looked around helplessly. His breaths felt shallow, and wrong, like his lungs had twisted over each other. His tongue was swelling, his muscles pulsing. His mouth was suddenly full of spit. He leant over, and was horrified when thick, oily, stinking acid poured up his throat and out of his mouth and nose. “Urgh!” He didn’t even have Aziraphale to tell him what this _was_, and that thought made it happen again. His _own body_ was producing poison now.

Well, there was contrapasso for you.

He wiped his face, and vanished the stinking, nasty stuff. He staggered to the desk; he didn’t have long before Gabriel came back. What had he said in all those reports? What were they going to twist and throw in Aziraphale’s face?

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. There could have been a very nasty accident, because one folder didn’t contain any papers. It didn’t contain anything but the hellblade in all its dark malevolence. No evidence bag, no sheath. It was here, on Gabriel’s desk, not in the Weapons Lab or the armoury.

He looked down at the blade, and then up at the far door.

*

Aziraphale was woken by rough hands seizing him by the shoulders and pulling him up. He thought for a second it was Hastur and Ligur, as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, but no: it was Sandalphon, spinning him away from the sofa he’d fallen asleep in, to face Uriel. His mind tried to catch up – fire, the _fire_, the Admiral Duncan – but it was taken up almost entirely by the adamant handcuffs dangling from Uriel’s finger. They glittered like diamonds, and Uriel raised their eyebrows at him. “Well, Aziraphale. You’re under arrest.”

“Under arrest?” He struggled, quite unconsciously, but was dazed and only half awake. The cuffs snapped, freezing cold, around his wrists. “For what?! Where’s Kralel? Kralel!”

“He’s already Upstairs,” Sandalphon said at his back. Aziraphale could hear the sneer in his voice. “Gabriel’s already been asking him lots and lots of questions.”

“Is he all right? You can’t have arrested him, he’s done nothing wrong!” Aziraphale said. He looked back at Uriel; there was no point in trying to reason with Sandalphon. “Has he been arrested? Uriel, please!”

Sandalphon sank a fist into his abdomen, and Aziraphale groaned, bending over in pain and shock. He sucked in a breath to speak. “What are you- You _can’t!_ I didn’t say anything!”

“Is that how you address an archangel?”

“How else should I address them?” Aziraphale said, grunting in pain. He slowly straightened up, trying to repress the sick, winded feeling and the faintness that accompanied it. “That’s what God gave us _names_ _for_. And for what am I under arrest? I have a right to know!”

“Do you?” asked Uriel conversationally. They gripped Aziraphale’s arm, and stretched out their wings in a blinding light. They sighed. “You know, I always thought this would happen one day.”

Aziraphale gasped in hysterical laughter. So had he.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlucky 13. It's another cruel one, everyone. Er, sorry. 
> 
> Heavy suicide discussion in this chapter. Thank you so much for all your comments. I will reply to them all when I am able to; I have masses of much less fun writing to do, and like Aziraphale the human contact is sometimes more difficult for me, and often takes as long as writing a chapter does! But they make it all worthwhile, thank you. <3

“God,” said Kralel, alone in the great empty space of the archangels’ office. He hadn’t been able to bear sitting down on the sofa which Gabriel had conjured.

He didn’t know where to look. St. Peter’s, or the Pyramid, or the Taj Mahal… Nothing was right. He ignored the buildings and looked at the sky instead. That, at least, he had some relationship with.

Though the light meant that you could never see the stars, in Heaven.

He wasn’t a seraph or a cherub or a Throne, to approach God’s footstool and kiss the hem of Her robe. He wouldn’t even know where to go to do it. He wasn’t an archangel, to receive orders, or the Metatron, to give Her judgements. He was just an angel, an ordinary, run-of-the-mill angel.

He didn’t know how angels like him should pray.

“O God,” he tried again. If he didn’t know how angels should pray, he could try to pray like humans did. She didn’t seem to mind that. “I know that You’re kind and powerful and all that. We all keep hearing about it. So what I don’t understand is why this is happening. Aziraphale would say that this is all part of Your ineffable plan and that we should have faith things are going as they should, but… I don’t know what I should do in that. And I don’t know how to stop this.”

That was something, at least. He knew he wanted to _stop this_.

“Maybe it’s what You want to happen? If it is, then, um… maybe You could reconsider? Because Aziraphale doesn’t deserve this. I know he drinks too much and loves cake and can be a bit of a dickhead, especially to the customers, but he’s a good angel really. He’s kind. And he loves You. I know you don’t want him as your cherub anymore, but that doesn’t mean he has to _Fall_. Maybe You could be merciful? He’s not seen You in six thousand years and he loves You like no one else I’ve ever seen.”

He heaved a sigh, and looked at the floor. The floor looked back at him. “Just do something. Anything. I thought I was doing the right thing but this is all… it’s all _fucked up_. Please do something. Please.”

And then Gabriel was there again. “They’re bringing him up now!”

Gabriel looked sincerely excited, and Kralel felt a hatred more poisonous, more acidic and corrosive, than what he had ever felt for Hastur. To his immense surprise, not all of it was for Gabriel.

With a gesture Gabriel vanished the sofa. In its place was a glass table, with one chair on one side, and two on the other. Kralel felt the oily, lumpy thing in his throat again.

Uriel and Sandalphon brought Aziraphale in, and the oily, lumpy thing was in real danger of making another appearance. He looked _small _in between them, small and dishevelled, even though he had several inches on Sandalphon. The only things about him that were bright and clean were the adamant handcuffs he was wearing. His bow tie was undone from the night before, his clothes were askew, and patches of his face and hair were dark with soot. It deepened the creases of his face, and made his eyes even paler: the green of glass, the blue of rain, tarnished silver.

He looked like half a demon already.

Except that when he saw Kralel his face lit up. “Kralel! Are you all right? You weren’t there when…”

He stopped, his words fading away as he took in the expression on Kralel’s face. Kralel didn’t know what it was, but if it looked half as bad as how he felt, Aziraphale had probably seen better looking corpses.

In a plague pit.

Gabriel sighed. “How do you solve a problem like Aziraphale, hm?”

Completely unbidden, more lyrics came into Kralel’s head. _When I’m with him I’m confused, out of focus and bemused… _

He was hysterical. He was about to have a complete nervous breakdown.

Uriel and Sandalphon forced Aziraphale down into a chair. Gabriel nodded to them, and a _look_ passed between the archangels. Then they left.

Gabriel sat in one of the two chairs on the other side. He looked up at Kralel, and gestured.

He didn’t think that Aziraphale realised what had happened until this second. Kralel tried to tell him with his eyes that he didn’t want this, that it wasn’t what it looked like.

Gabriel cleared his throat.

Kralel sank down into the third chair. His legs shook beneath him. Aziraphale made a soft sound as he did, and Kralel tried to beam thoughts directly into Aziraphale’s mind. _This isn’t what it looks like, this isn’t what it looks like!_

But it was, wasn’t it?

Azirazphale looked right at him, and the light in his eyes just… went out. Like a snuffed candle. He didn’t look hurt any more, or betrayed. His eyes looked dead.

Gabriel spread out some of the folders on the desk in front of them. “So. Aziraphale. I’m going to say, right out of the gate, that it’s not good.”

“What a surprise,” Aziraphale said, in a dead voice to match his dead eyes.

It hurt Kralel to see it. Aziraphale was often full of energy, even anxious energy. Expressions flitted across his face at dizzying speed, his body wriggled, his hands were rarely still. Now he looked like a corpse or a waxwork model propped up in a chair.

“Evidence has come to light that you have committed the treasonous action of giving away classified divine technology to humanity.”

“Well. If Kralel’s already told you everything, I doubt there’s much point in my denying it. I gave away the flaming sword which God had given to me. I gave it to Adam and Eve. They didn’t ask for it. I offered it to them. There you have it.” Aziraphale put his cuffed hands on the table. “Ou phrontis.”

“Ou phrontis?”

“You know Greek, Gabriel. Who cares? Why do you suddenly care? It was six thousand years ago. God had the opportunity to cast me down for it, and She didn’t. So why are you bringing it up again now?”

Gabriel looked as surprised as Kralel felt. God, he thought, Aziraphale was fast. You wouldn’t have thought it, to look at him – but then. Then. Hadn’t Aziraphale said it himself, on his first day on Earth? _Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak. _Was this Aziraphale showing his strength, or hiding his weakness?

“I’m bringing it up now because it has only just come to my attention.”

“Right. I told Kralel, and he ran right up and told you. But God already knew. As you said yourself, Kralel, She’s omniscient. And I didn’t Fall. So by bringing this up again… are you _disagreeing_ with Her verdict?”

Kralel couldn’t help but smile. Aziraphale frowned, and looked surprised – genuine emotion on his face. Kralel quickly wiped the smile from his face.

“That’s not the only thing,” Gabriel said, sorting through the sheathes of paper. “The next most damning sin is that of despair-“

Aziraphale laughed. Actually laughed. “We’re not Catholic. Even if I have been in despair, not a sin.”

“And what about gluttony, Aziraphale? Sloth? Greed?”

Aziraphale couldn’t spread his hands in the cuffs, so he turned them outwards instead. “All known to Her. Unless She told you to bring me up? The other Falls happened in the Judgement Theatre, so if She wants to make an example of me, shouldn’t we be doing this in there?”

Kralel looked at Gabriel.

“We are trying to spare you, Aziraphale. To allow you whatever dignity you haven’t frittered away yet.”

“That never bothered you before. You’ve gone soft in your old age.”

“Do you _want_ to Fall, Aziraphale?” Gabriel suddenly asked. “Because this flippancy suggests that you think this has been coming for quite some time. Resigned to it now, are you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He looked suddenly more broken than he had – God, last night? Only last night? “I’m resigned to that fact that if you want to string me up for something then there’s not much point in continuing this charade. Whatever God wants, here I am. What I want is irrelevant as far as I can see, but… I can’t see Her hand much anymore. Here, or on Earth. Sometimes I think that She went away somewhere. Away from all this. I wish I could follow Her, wherever She’s gone. I wouldn’t disturb Her. I could just curl at Her feet and drift away into nothingness. Maybe She’d allow me to do that. That would be kind.”

Kralel wanted to scream at the sky. _Show Yourself_, he thought with desperate rage. _If You’re alive and seeing this and don’t come here right now what kind of God are You? Be what he thinks You are! Be kind! Put an end to this!_

“And if God wants you to Fall?” Gabriel said silkily. “If She never wants to see you again?”

“I suppose if that’s the case, then the reason I haven’t yet is because She wants to make a spectacle of me. I assume it must be part of Her Plan.” Aziraphale looked more tired with every passing second. “Have you ever read Chesterton? Either of you? No. Of course not. ‘Let God use His tools; let God break His tools. But what is He doing, and what are they being broken for?’ It probably wouldn’t be much of a comfort to know. Job found comfort without knowing. ‘The refusal of God to explain His design is itself a burning hint of His design. The riddles of God are more satisfying than the solutions of man.’ Or angels.”

“But what about _you_?” Kralel said. Gabriel looked at him in consternation, but he didn’t care. He wanted to scream at Aziraphale to _fight this_, that resignation wasn’t faith, that no one deserved this kind of loyalty without justifying it. Without justifying Themselves.

Aziraphale stared at him. “What do you think, Kralel? I thought you knew me. Certainly better than I knew you, it turned out… Of course I don’t want to Fall. I’d rather die than Fall. Truly die. Perhaps if God does want me to Fall… Maybe I’d be able to get up and find some holy water before I became too twisted. Before I began to hurt people. Maybe She wouldn’t mind that, once I’d served Her purpose as an example.”

“If you really would prefer that…” Gabriel said carefully. He brought another folder to the top of the pile. “You never handed in the hellblade you got from Duke Hastur.”

Aziraphale looked surprised again. He looked between them, mouth open. “I did. I did! I came up and I handed it to the Quartermaster!”

Gabriel drew the hellforged dagger from the folder, and placed it between them on the table. “No, you didn’t. No records say you did. You kept it, and you brought it up here when you were arrested.”

“Ah. Mm.” Strange, fluttery laughter burst from Aziraphale.

“I’m going to leave that here, on the table. Kralel and I are going to step outside for a minute.”

“_What?_” Kralel shouted.

“I see. I see.” Aziraphale looked between Kralel and Gabriel. “I didn’t even know you’d read any Agatha Christie. Or Dorothy Sayers. You do know you’re traditionally supposed to give me a bottle of whisky too, don’t you?”

“Very funny. We won’t tell anyone your amusing last words, but at least we heard them. Go with a little dignity, Aziraphale. You said yourself that you’d prefer it. And I know from Kralel that you’ve wanted it for a while, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale did nothing more than look at Kralel, and Kralel, for a second, wanted to grab the knife and cut his own throat with it. Aziraphale didn’t even dignify this further betrayal with any other response, and just looked at Gabriel. “I won’t do it.”

“No?” Gabriel looked incredulous. “This is what you _wanted_.” He brought his fist down against his palm with every syllable.

“But you want it too, so now I don’t anymore. I’ve learnt _spite_ down on Earth, it seems. If you want me dead you can do it yourself. Get your hands dirty.” Aziraphale shrugged as much as the adamant cuffs allowed. “Or make Kralel do it. He seems to be your chosen minion for dirty work.”

“I am offering,” Gabriel said, “the chance for you to make this as painless as possible.”

“That’s not like you, Gabriel….” Aziraphale stared back at him. “Thank you, but no thank you. I’d rather know for certain. Let’s go to the Judgement Theatre.”

Aziraphale stared at Gabriel. Gabriel stared at Aziraphale.

Kralel felt something yawning beneath him.

Aziraphale huffed in satisfaction. “I suppose I should thank you, Kralel, for making me watch that casino film with you.” His eyes were unsmiling as he looked back at Gabriel. He was handcuffed, covered in soot, clothing all askew, but he sat in the chair like a king at council. “You don’t want us to go to Judgement Theatre because you don’t think I’ll Fall. If I was going to Fall for it, I would have done so six thousand years ago! That’s why all this is private…”

Aziraphale leant back in his chair. He had that slightly scrunched-up look that he got when he was thinking particularly hard, Kralel thought. “If you don’t think I’ll Fall… you don’t have a say in it. It’s completely up to God. Oh. Oh, so. You want to get rid of me, but Falling is off the table. But if you just kill me, the whole Host feels it. Everyone would feel it. They’ll have be told something. If I do it myself, you can truthfully tell them that I was arrested, and obliterated myself. That I had procured a hell-forged knife, and that I brought it up to Heaven. That’d all, _technically_, be the truth. They won’t feel a lie. It’s very clever! Oh.”

“Kralel, get out,” Gabriel said.

“No, Kralel, _stay_,” said Aziraphale. “Why me? Why do you suddenly want to get rid of _me_? If I’m not Falling then God doesn’t, but you do. This is like a sudoku… Your will isn’t in opposition to Hers. Or you’d Fall yourself. Now, why obliteration? It’s not just - why _obliteration_? I don’t understand how giving them the sword was worse than what Lucifer did. Semiaza raped people! Neither of them were obliterated! It’s not that you want me out of Heaven; you don’t want me to exist at all.”

“Aziraphale, this is your one chance-“

“No no, no no,” Aziraphale said. “I almost have it, I can feel it. Your will isn’t in opposition because… because you don’t know. You don’t know what She wants. Because if you _knew_ and went against it, you’d Fall yourself. Because Falling’s not up to you. It’s up to God.” He looked up at Gabriel, and he looked alive again. “You want something... and you don’t _know_ if God wants it too. And you don't want to risk finding out. But why me? Why me, why do _I_ need to be removed?”

“You’re the only angel who’s ever been demoted,” Kralel breathed. “Out of God’s sphere.”

Aziraphale’s eyes met his. “The only one to move from Her side to here… Where are the seraphim and cherubim? I want to see them.”

“They’ll never talk to you,” Gabriel spat. “You’re beneath them now.”

“I don’t need to speak to them,” Aziraphale said. “Just to see them. Just to see _one_. One cherub. Koachiraphael, Toqephiraphael, Chezeqiraphael – any of them! Even through surveillance!”

“Kralel, get out of here, right now.”

“Yes, go to Surveillance!” Aziraphale leant forward. “Where are they?”

“They’re with Her. That’s where they’re supposed to be. Where you're supposed to be, if you hadn’t been such a pathetic excuse for a-“

“But where is _She_?” Aziraphale frowned at the table in thought. “She can’t be _dead_ – I feel sick just thinking it – the Universe would unmake itself. … I was right. Oh, God, I was right. She’s gone somewhere, hasn’t She? Is She talking to you? Is She talking to anyone? … is She testing _us_ as well as the humans?”

“Shut up, Aziraphale!” Kralel looked at Gabriel, and was surprised to find the archangel’s eyes already on him.

“Because I’m the only one,” Aziraphale said to himself. “The only one demoted – the only one to move from Her sphere to this one. It’s not a clean severance… That’s why. I’m the only normal angel who knew Her before – who spoke to Her. Even the Metatron was a human being. Otherwise it’s just you. Just the archangels.” He looked at Kralel. “When was the last time a normal angel saw Her? Heard Her voice? Saw Her power?”

“A thousand years,” Kralel said, and Gabriel rounded on him with a snarl.

“You need to be careful, Kralel,” Aziraphale said quietly. “They’ll want to find a reason to get rid of you now too. I’m sorry for it. That’s why it has to be obliteration. Because if the rest of Heaven finding out was bad, imagine _Hell_-“

“You think Hell would believe _you_?” Gabriel said. “After everything you and Hastur have fucked up between you over the years? Fine. I want you gone, and to be honest, I’d prefer you Fall. Just to wipe that smug look off your face. You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale gave a small variation on what Kralel thought of as his _bastard smile_. “No. You’re still going to obliterate me. But at least you’ll have to explain to the Host why one of them died. You’ll have to lie to their faces.”

The archangel planted his hands on the table and loomed over Aziraphale. “Oh, no. I offered you obliteration, and you didn’t take it. I was trying to be merciful, Aziraphale, but you had to stick your fucking foot up your own ass, as usual. I can’t make you Fall. Not directly. But you _will_, if you renounce God. That’s an automatic ticket down.”

“I won’t,” Aziraphale said. His voice was firm, but Kralel could see that he was rattled.

“You will. You think I need to obliterate you to shut you up? I was being kind. I will rip your voice right out of you and then we’ll send you down to Hell. They’ll be delighted to take you off our hands. We’ll ask them to keep you in the deepest, darkest, dankest pit in existence until God Herself wouldn’t recognise you. Until you renounce Her. We will ask them to send you mad. We will ask them to make sure you don’t remember your own God-given name!” Gabriel’s grin was like a rictus. “And they’ll be happy to do it! An unFallen angel! There’ll be queues a mile long to have a go! There’ll be betting pools! There’ll be a medal for whoever can make you curse the Name of God!”

Aziraphale was white. In his terror he barely looked like an angel anymore. He looked like a ghost. “You wouldn’t. You can’t! It’s wrong, it’s wrong to even threaten that!”

Gabriel leant forward. “And when you’ve Fallen, which you will, I’ll ask them to only send you up when you’re completely _fucking_ insane. They will unleash you on humanity like a rabid dog. You’ll make Hastur look like a loving nursemaid!”

“No!” Kralel said, and Gabriel spun on him.

“Get the fuck up and get the fuck out, Kralel! You can’t beat us, Aziraphale. You can’t win. We’ll be outside. Use the fucking knife.”

“Don’t do it,” Kralel begged. “Aziraphale, it won’t come to that, I won’t let it-“

Gabriel gripped him by the collar and teleported them both out of the room.

*

Aziraphale didn’t know how long he sat there. It was probably only minutes, but it felt like far longer.

God was gone. How could She have abandoned them? _My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me?_ When? Why? Was this all a test too?

He was sorry to have brought Kralel into it. He’d thought it at the very beginning, that the angel had been sent to report to Gabriel. He should have trusted his first instinct.

No matter. He’d been kind, for the most part. And Aziraphale knew what Gabriel could be like. Kralel had probably thought everything could be sorted out if they all just sat in a room and talked it over.

He’d been like that, once.

He was too tired for hatred or anger or doubt any more. Too tired for anything. Maybe that was how God was answering his prayer – to put the hellblade back into his hands, to influence Gabriel to give him this chance. Maybe oblivion was all that he could hope for from Her now.

Maybe She was tired of it all too. Give the responsibility of it all to the archangels, and rest, or watch from afar. Could he really blame Her, given what he wanted? What was the burden on his shoulders compared to the burden on Hers?

Better to make it a clean break. And better by far to die than to become like Hastur.

The adamant cuffs were large, heavy, cumbersome. The hellblade was long, and thin. Sitting down, he couldn’t manoeuvre the blade to press against his heart. Even with his arms outstretched to their full extent, the point of the blade would be against his chest. He tried to imagine pressing into it. He leant forward, and he dropped the knife before he even felt it prick him. “Ah. Ahhh. Uh.”

His body was making sounds without any conscious input from him. He inhaled, exhaled. He had done a Mental Health First Aid course when the local Mind office had offered them. What had they said? They’d had excellent advice for coaxing someone through a panic attack, but he couldn’t remember it. Was it inhale for three, hold for four, and exhale for three? Was it longer?

It suddenly felt very important that he remember exactly. His existence hadn’t exactly been a resounding success. It’d be very embarrassing to muck up his death as well. “Urgh. No. No. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! Damn! Come on, Aziraphale. God heals my strength. Come on.”

He was never going to be able to push himself onto the blade. He was a coward, and he was afraid of pain. He’d have to do it standing.

His knees threatened to give out beneath him as he stood up, pushing himself up from the table with his cuffed hands. It was a blessing, really, that he was in a physical body. Gravity could be trusted where his nerves couldn’t. He thought of the Psalms again: He will cover you with His pinions and you will find refuge under His wings. _Please, please, please, please._

He wiggled. His body felt _wrong_, every muscle too tense or too loose. He wanted to be comfortable. He wanted to die comfortable.

“Gah!” More cowardice. “Do it. Do it, Aziraphale. Come on.” The longer it took, the harder it would be. “Lord, Lord, Lord, please. Please. Do it, come on! Saul did it, Brutus did it, you can do it.”

He shrugged his shoulder, stretched his fingers. Repositioned the knife, so that the point would pierce between his ribs, above his heart. He hoped his form and his body would die at the same time… No, no. Don’t think any more.

“He is my God, my life’s redeemer, my refuge in distress,” he said. His tongue was so thick with fear he could barely form the words, but they were a comfort. “Into His hand I entrust my spirit, when I sleep and when I wake. When I sleep. When I sleep. That’s all. Just sleep. Into Her hand I entrust my spirit.”

He breathed out for the last time, closed his eyes, and fell forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chesteron is G. K. Chesterton, to whom Good Omens is dedicated!
> 
> _The authors would like to join the demon Crowley in dedicating this book to the memory of G.K. Chesterton:_
> 
> _A man who knew what was going on._
> 
> The passage Aziraphale quotes is from his Introduction to the Book of Job. Both the Book of Job and Chesterton's introductory essay on it are where I get my conception of what Aziraphale means by ineffability, and his faith in it.


	14. Chapter 14

As soon as they reappeared outside the archangels’ room Kralel shoved Gabriel off him. Kralel took a step back, and went for the door; Sandalphon moved aside to block it.

“Oh, you’re in on it too?” He spun around. “All of you?”

“Kralel,” Gabriel said reasonably. “You heard a lot of things in there-“

“Yeah, I fucking did! Shit!”

“I can see what six months on Earth have done to your language,” Uriel remarked.

“Better than what six millennia up here have done to you!” Kralel shouted. At the other end of the vast room, angels were beginning to stop. Beginning to pay attention. “Let me go back in! He can’t die alone in there! Let me-“

Gabriel pulled him back again. “Kralel. I’m giving you a direct order. Leave it alone.”

“And if I disobey? Can’t demote me, can you?” Kralel said. “Nothing below angel, is there?”

“Human,” said Michael. “_Demon_.”

“_You_ don’t get to make that decision, though, do you?” said Kralel. He tried again to shove past Sandalphon. “Aziraphale!”

“Back to work, everyone!” Gabriel shouted to the other angels, and then gripped the lapels of Kralel’s jacket. “Listen, you little bastard. You think you know the first thing about what’s going on here? You know _shit. _We are going to have a very, very long talk about your career prospects, Kralel.”

“There’s always the brig,” Uriel said.

“Yes. There’s always the brig,” Gabriel said, and shook Kralel by his front. “So think very carefully about whose side you want to be on.”

Kralel breathed hard through his nose, and shoved Gabriel off. He stepped back.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Time seemed to… slow. He could hear Uriel and Michael asking what was taking Aziraphale so long, but their voices dragged low.

There were too many moving pieces.

Remove Aziraphale from the equation for the moment.

If he stayed in Heaven… If he was lucky, incredibly lucky, he’d be back in Earth Surveillance, or Angelic Corruption. That was the best-case scenario. Stay quiet, be complicit. Know that he betrayed the first real friend he’d ever had, for eternity, and know that God was… AWOL.

Nope. Not an option. Every thought, every feeling, every scrappy shred of his soul rebelled against it.

For months he had lived with a sick, squirming feeling in the pit of his body. He knew now that it was guilt. He had brought it back to Heaven with him.

And now it wasn’t gone, but it was lessened. The decision was made, and the vice around his heart and lungs eased a little. He felt strangely free, and the feeling was so desperately unfamiliar he realised he hadn’t felt it since before Lucifer rebelled. Ahead was the unknown, and for all he knew it would be worse, far worse, than this. But he had to walk away from Heaven regardless.

It should have terrified him, and on one level it did.

But.

But.

But the terror wasn’t paralysing. It was invigorating. He had never felt as alive as he did in that second. Because, underneath it all, Kralel was an optimist. If there was one rock-hard certainty that had sustained him through the dull times – Earth surveillance and the fourteenth century came to mind – and the bad times – all those nights watching Aziraphale and Hastur playing their Game, feeling sick and helpless and useless and tired, watching the bookshop burn – then it was utter, unthinking, unconscious surety that he would come out on top. That the universe would look after him.

After all, he’d escaped Falling. And then he’d been the one chosen to go undercover with Aziraphale, no one else.

The universe would look after him. At the same time, he suspected that it wouldn’t look after Aziraphale. It certainly hadn’t up to this point.

He would have to do it instead.

Heaven was no longer an option. Neither was death. That wasn’t his style. His soul had been atrophying for thousands of years, but Earth had taught him that much about himself at least.

So. The final option spread before him. The road to Hell.

That’d be bad. It’d be very bad. But, he thought, bearable.

How to get to Hell? How to Fall, on purpose? Gabriel and Aziraphale had both said it. Renounce God. Curse Her holy name. Set himself in opposition to Her.

He tried to think like Aziraphale. If he cursed God, and She didn’t react… then Aziraphale was right. She was completely gone, beyond sight and sound. He wouldn’t _Fall. _But perhaps he could drop. Tell Hell. They’d attack immediately, if they thought God was no longer on the side of the angels. He and Aziraphale would have lost nothing, and gained knowledge. Knowledge was power.

But what if he did curse Her, and She reacted?

If he Fell… If he Fell for cursing Her, then so be it. Good. Fucking fine. Because if he could Fall for that, while Gabriel didn’t Fall for the shit he had said to Aziraphale, then God _could_ _go and fuck Herself_. If she cared more about insults to her Name than what was going on here in Heaven then she could take Her own fucking pride and vanity and shove them up Her holy arsehole.

It was _fucking wrong_, and Kralel couldn’t unsee it. He couldn’t unknow it. Aziraphale might cling to hope in some ineffable plan, but he couldn’t.

Where once that had been a vague hope that God liked him, thought he was all right, was going to do right by him… now there was a void. God didn’t care about them, and he didn’t care about Her either. Not if She had abandoned them to this, or wanted it.

He’d Fallen already, hadn’t he?

He opened his eyes. More and more angels were crowding forward. No gaping wound in any of them from an obliterated angel. He smiled, just before they heard a messy thud from the other room.

“_Ow! Fuck!_”

They all stood still, and then rushed to be the first through the door; Kralel won by means of pure desperation and sharp elbows.

On the floor was Aziraphale, unbloodied, and very much alive. On the floor in was the hellblade’s handle, with no hellblade.

“Fuck! You sadistic bastards!” he shouted at them. “Why? _Why?_ I did what you wanted, why would you- God, I think I’ve broken a rib! Ow!”

“What happened?!” Gabriel cried out, running forward. “Where’s the blade?!”

“Here,” said Kralel at his back, and put it against Gabriel’s throat.

Everyone went very still, just for a second.

“Get them out of here, Sandalphon!” Michael snapped, and he went straight for the lower angels, shoving them out of the door. Aziraphale stared up at Kralel from the floor, his mouth a perfect o of shock.

“You replaced it…” Gabriel said. “With a simulacrum.”

“Just the handle. Blade was an illusion.”

“Why? You didn’t know what we were going to do.”

“No. But, um. Well.”

“James Bond?” Aziraphale said from the floor. He had his right hand pressed to his chest, and his left hung useless from the handcuffs.

“Yeah…” Kralel said, embarrassed. “Thought it was kind of like emptying the bullets from a gun.”

“Very good,” Aziraphale said. “Hmm. He did that in the casino one too, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, at the beginning-“

“Shut up!” Gabriel shouted.

“Ooh, don’t make me jump,” Kralel said. His hand was shaking. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Michael approaching Aziraphale from behind, and he wheeled himself and Gabriel around. Didn’t want to end up in a hostage standoff. “No, no, step away! Aziraphale, move this way, get behind me.”

A nasty wheezing sound escaped from Aziraphale when he moved, but he managed to climb the table leg, and stepped back, behind Kralel and Gabriel.

“How do we know that’s the real blade?” Michael said.

“It definitely is,” snapped Gabriel.

“Feels different. It feels hot,” Kralel said.

98% of his brain was just screaming _SHIT_ at him. 1% was worried about Aziraphale.

But 1%... 1% was _absolutely loving this._

“Kralel,” said Michael. “You’ve got no plan. There’s nowhere to run.”

“Get back,” Kralel said, and took a step forward, forcing Gabriel ahead of him. “Back. Get out of here, and I’ll let him go.”

“Kralel, don’t do this, _please_,” Aziraphale said behind him.

“It’s done. Decision’s made.” Another laborious step. “Don’t worry. I’m going to help _all_ of you. It’s going to be very interesting. I just need a moment alone.”

“If you’ve got any sense you’ll take that blade and cut your throat with it,” Gabriel snarled, as they took another step forward together.

“It’s definitely on the table. It’s a possibility,” Kralel lied. Kralel wanted to _live_. There was so much on Earth that he hadn’t experienced yet. Six thousand years hadn’t compared to six months on Earth; he had felt alive, he had felt as though he was a true creature, something fashioned for a purpose, an individual with his own opinions and thoughts and emotions.

Gabriel couldn’t tell he was lying if they weren’t touching. His skin crawled with the memory of it. How easy the archangel had done it. How his hand had dropped like he’d done nothing wrong. He had to explain to Aziraphale...

Uriel and Michael were at the door. “Go on, then,” said Kralel. He pressed the blade to Gabriel’s throat more forcefully to make his point.

“Go!” Gabriel said, and Michael and Uriel stepped out. Through the open door Kralel could see ranks and ranks of angels gathered, straining to see what was happening.

Kralel gripped the back of Gabriel’s collar, and brought the hellblade round to point it at the back of his neck. Michael tried to move forward in the split second when Gabriel wasn’t at risk, but Gabriel was broad enough to block the whole door.

Typical of Heaven, Kralel suddenly realised. Glass for everyone else, but the archangels got one opaque wall.

One, two, three. Kralel took a deep breath, and shoved Gabriel forwards as hard as he could. He slammed the door, the single door; the lock was a simple key, and he turned it. A loud _boom_ sounded against the wall, and Kralel knew they didn’t have long.

Aziraphale stared at him, completely aghast. “What have you done?” he said, and his face crumpled; he folded to the floor, and Kralel dove to meet him there, letting the hellblade drop from his hand. “What have you _done_?”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Kralel said. He found Aziraphale’s broken ribs and healed them. “No, I mean, I meant to do _this_. To save you. Gabriel _did_ send me to undercover, to spy on you, but that’s not why I came up here, I came up here to tell them that you were great. You’re great. Gabriel… reached in, and took what you told me about the sword.”

Aziraphale was finally crying, as he hadn’t through all of this. “I never wanted you to be involved in any of this!”

“I’m the one who got me involved, not you. Gabriel asked me to involve myself and I jumped at the chance. You’re the only one who _didn’t_ know what was going on. You’re the innocent one. _Please_, Aziraphale, you can’t feel guilty about this.”

Their words were punctuated by more loud booms from the wall. Kralel heard the door creak. “We don’t have time – we need to defect. Curse Her, and we’ll both Fall, but we won’t be under their authority anymore! Come with me!”

“We’ll be under Satan’s instead!” Aziraphale said. “Kralel, you’ve gone mad – you don’t have to do this!”

“I do. I do. I can’t live with this. I can’t live like this. I can’t live with _myself_ and stay in this.” Another _boom_. “It’s done, it’s done, I’ve already made up my mind. I’m going to renounce Her. If She’s listening then I’ll Fall, and if not, they’ll all know! We’ll shout at them, all of them out there, and everyone will know She’s gone!”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t renounce Her. I love Her. Kralel, I can still feel Her, somewhere deep inside, even if it’s only the memory of Her. I love Her. I can’t renounce Her.”

“Even now? Even after all this?”

Aziraphale groaned, and squeezed his eyes shut as another smash rang against the door. “This isn’t Her. Or if it is, then there must be a reason.”

Kralel bared his teeth; he wanted to shake Aziraphale until his eyes rolled in his bloody idealistic head. “There isn’t! She could stop it, and She hasn’t!”

“This isn’t the Her I knew,” Aziraphale said again. The tears ran freely down his cheeks, and splashed on Heaven’s immaculate floor. “She must have a reason!”

“No reason is good enough!” Kralel shouted. “Fuck Her and Her reasons!”

There was a strike of lightning, right in the centre of the room; it was close enough to set their hair on end; it was close enough that Kralel felt its heat. They screamed, and instinctively clung to each other. The rebel angels had done the same.

Where the lightning had struck was a dark hole. It swirled like a maelstrom, widening slowly.

“Oh, God!” Aziraphale cried out. “Kralel, Kralel, She’ll be merciful! She will! Look, She’s giving you time!”

Kralel felt sick with fury. She’d been listening. She’d _been listening all along. _“I don’t want Her mercy! You think those bastards out there will enact Her mercy?” Another boom, and Kralel saw the door begin to buckle out of the corner of his eye. “Aziraphale, please come with me.”

Aziraphale looked at him, wretched and defeated. “I can’t lose Her. Kralel, I can’t. I can’t become like Hastur, and I can’t lose Her! I’d rather have the blade. I’d rather die as Aziraphale.”

That was it. Aziraphale had said that he didn’t think Aziraphale was a good thing to be, but Kralel… Kralel had betrayed his only friend. And if being Kralel meant being Gabriel’s crony, if it meant interrogating terrified angels for miniscule crimes for the rest of eternity, with the knowledge that God didn’t care what was being done in Her name… If Kralel meant being the angel who had betrayed his only friend, then he couldn’t be Kralel anymore.

Not that that was really an option. Heaven was off the cards. It was death or Hell.

Aziraphale really was ready to die. Kralel wasn’t. Hell it was, then.

Kralel took a deep, steadying breath. “All right.” He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, and pressed a hard kiss to his hair. “All right. I’ll work it out. I’ll work something out.”

Azirahale fisted his cuffed hands in Kralel’s t-shirt. “I never wanted this.”

“I know. I know. Stupid soft-hearted thing.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that stung them.

“I was meant to teach you! I was meant to look after you!” Aziraphale said against his shoulder.

“You did. _You did_. And I was meant to betray you, and I did, and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He looked back towards the widening hole, then to the door, and with blinding, lightning clarity, an idea came to him “They’re going to break open the door… Aziraphale. They won’t be able to close it. The others will see. They’ll see She’s still listening. We know now… Aziraphale, you need to make it look good, okay?”

Aziraphale was staring at the dark hole in terror. “What? I don’t understand!”

“I won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” Kralel promised. “As soon as I can, I’ll come to Earth. I’ll meet you there.”

The door creaked, with a vast groan. Like it was in pain. Kralel pulled Aziraphale up, and smiled at him. Then, as the door blasted forwards, taking half the wall with it, he turned Aziraphale around to face the door and put the hellblade to this throat.

“Nobody move or the Principality gets it!”

There were gasps and shouts of horror from the angels who were pouring in. Kralel realised with mad glee that he was the only angel, apart from Aziraphale, who had seen a James Bond film, which automatically made him the coolest angel in Heaven.

“_Really_?” Aziraphale whispered, voice high and hysterical.

Then the other angels realised what the black hole behind Kralel and Aziraphale was, and they began to scream in earnest.

“I’ll only talk to Gabriel!” Kralel shouted over the noise. “He was my boss, he’s the only one I’ll talk to!”

Gabriel was staring with huge purple eyes at the pitch-black hole. It took Michael shoving him forwards to take one step, and then another. Then he seemed to gather himself together, and began to stride.

“You know I really don’t care if you kill him right now,” he snarled as he approached them, face hidden from all the other angels.

“But you do care if everyone sees you not caring if I kill him,” Kralel said. “That’s for me. I’m Falling.”

Gabriel looked disgusted, and his eyes flicked down to Aziraphale. “Six thousand years with me, and after six months with you, he Falls.”

“No,” Kralel said. “Six hours with you. The real you. I’ve given you the knowledge that She really is listening, right? But I’m about to go down, and I bet they’ll all be really interested to know that She’s not _talking_ to you.”

Gabriel made a move to dart at Kralel, but the horrified noises behind him stopped him dead.

“So,” Kralel said silkily. “As soon as I hear that _anything_ has happened to Aziraphale, they’ll know everything. _E v e r y t h i n g._”

“What do you want, Kralel?” Gabriel bit out.

“Let Aziraphale go back to Earth, do his job. They’ll all think it’s back to normal, and you can carry on pretending that your orders come from Her. And She’ll let you. And while Aziraphale’s left alone, and safe, I won’t say anything down there.”

“And you’re happy with this?” Gabriel said to Aziraphale. His lip curled.

“Nothing to do with Aziraphale. If he was dead I’d already be down there and singing,” Kralel said. “_Leave him alone._”

“Kralel,” Aziraphale said. His voice was raw with anguish and distress. “There has to be another way. She’ll be forgiving. She’s _kind_.”

“Where have _you_ been?” Kralel said. Aziraphale smelt of smoke, and the ragged feathers of white around his head were achingly familiar. Kralel thought of him making tea in the kitchenette, calling through to ask whether he’d prefer green or black, or reading out some funny passage which he thought Kralel would like. No one else in existence had ever thought Kralel had preferences, let alone known what they were. No one else in existence had ever cared.

“Thanks for everything, Aziraphale. See you on the other side.” He shoved Aziraphale forwards, and stepped back to the edge of the swirling, monstrous hole in reality. He looked back at Gabriel. “I can’t believe I ever wanted to be just like you.”

He tucked the hellblade safely into his belt and raised both hands to give the middle finger to Gabriel. “Fuck you, you sadistic bastard. And if She’s happy to have you as Her archangel then fuck Her too.”

Then Kralel leant back, and Fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many of you had such amazing theories and ideas about what was going to happen (The fake blade! What Would James Bond Do?), I've been so desperate to reply to all your comments! Thank you so, so much! <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, I love you all for your kind, amazing comments! I only had time to reply or write, and I assumed you'd prefer a chapter; I promise I'll reply to every one of your lovely comments as soon as I can! <3

Angels clapped him on the back as Michael removed the adamant cuffs, congratulating him on his courage and stoicism. Gabriel didn’t take his eyes off him. “Well, Aziraphale. If you’re feeling well enough to return to duty, that’s very noble of you. You let us know if you need anything.”

Aziraphale nodded desperately. The archangels couldn’t touch him through the spontaneous honour guard of lesser angels that had formed up around him, all of whom were clucking and hissing and comforting each other over what they had just witnessed. Hands caressed him, angels asked if he was all right, exclaimed at how brave he had been in trying to persuade Kralel against his apostasy. They seemed to assume Kralel had put the handcuffs on him when he took Aziraphale hostage. He didn’t say a word. No one asked why he wasn’t being debriefed, or filling out witness statements.

He stepped onto the escalator, and managed to wave a shaking hand. The admiring angels watched him the whole way down the escalator. He could hear them comparing stories of Kralel: the fearsome interrogator, the stickler for the rules. Obsessed with _The Sound of Music_, apparently.

When he could no longer see their eyes, he turned around to face Earth, put his face in his hands, and wept.

*

The pool of sulphur sounded like a child blowing bubbles in a milkshake.

It was like a scab on the ground: browns of clotted blood, mangy orange, queasy yellow, knobs the colour of smegma, lumps of maggot-white as wet and gleaming as fat. All bubbling, like pus seeping through the crusted skin. On the top of the liquid lay a yellow scum that seeped down into the darkness, oily, unmixing.

From this grotesquery, from this stench and pustulence, the snake heaved himself. Or tried to, not having any arms; he sank his fangs into the solid sulphur, and trashed madly with his body in an attempt to propel himself out. When this was mostly successful he writhed against the unbearable taste that coated his mouth, and panted at the black, cavernous rock above him.

“Fuck me, that hurt,” he said to no one, and nearly fell back into the pool in shock when someone answered him.

OH, YES. I REMEMBER IT WELL.

The snake curled up into a ball, and peeked out from behind his own body. Lucifer, Star of the Morning, looked back at him in amusement. The snake recognised him from millennia ago, but really, you’d only have to look at him to guess, such was his beauty and the sick force of his charisma. It radiated from him and pinned the snake to the ground, and he had never felt so abject, so worthless and disgusting. “… my Lord?”

YOU LEARN QUICKLY. I WAS INFORMED THAT WE WERE TO HAVE OUR FIRST NEW ARRIVAL FOR A VERY, VERY LONG TIME. I DECIDED TO GREET YOU PERSONALLY.

“…I’m honoured?”

YOU SHOULD BE. SO. TELL ME EVERYTHING, DARLING.

The snake writhed. “Um. Well. It’s complicated.”

IT WOULD BE. OR VERY SIMPLE.

“Well, the simple answer is that I realised what a bunch of hypocrites everyone in Heaven is, and how I actually hated them all, and then I told God to fuck off.”

HOW VERY REASONABLE.

“I did bring a present – you know, token of my intended loyalty. Ecetera… Unfortunately I now seem to be a snake.”

Lucifer laughed, and reached into the pool of sulphur. He brought out the hellblade; it dangled, caught between his finger- and thumb-nail. HOW VERY KIND. MANY WORDS HAVE BEEN WASTED ON WHERE THIS HAD GOT TO.

“Duke Hastur lost it,” the snake said. “I’m just returning it to the rightful owner.”

VIRTUOUS. BUT WE DON’T MUCH GO IN FOR VIRTUE HERE, YOU KNOW.

“No, no, I suppose not. Um. Sorry, culture shock.”

FORGIVEN. WELL, NEWCOMER. TELL ME. WHAT OUGHT I TO DO WITH OUR FIRST FALLEN ANGEL IN FIVE THOUSAND YEARS? BECAUSE I WAS THINKING OF SKINNING YOU AND HANGING YOU AS A GIFT FOR MY LIEUTENANTS.

“I mean, I was actually hoping for a job,” said the snake. “Anything where I can really fuck with Gabriel would be _great_.”

HMM. AND HOW WOULD YOU DO THAT?

“Don’t know yet. Need to get used to being a demon first, I suppose. Sorry. Still, ah, stings. Um, am I going to be a snake forever?”

I DOUBT IT. I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOUR OTHER FORMS. I RECOGNISE YOUR VOICE…

“Oh, right, of course. Sorry, Lord.” The snake thought that plenty of idolatry and blasphemy right out of the gate would probably help his cause. “I’m Kralel.” The second syllable burnt on his newly forked tongue.

KRALEL! LITTLE KRALEL. I REMEMBER YOU. YOU’RE A LITTLE LATE.

“I know. You got me in the end, though! Ha…”

HA. HA.

“Yes, um. Well. A job. I mean, obviously I’d rather that than an eternity of torment. Have to stay busy. … what would you like to know?”

OH, FIRST, THE REASON WHY YOU FELL.

“Ah. Yes… Well, I cursed Her name.” He had learnt how to lie, in all this time. Aziraphale had taught him dissimulation, after all. The trick to a good lie was to include as much truth as possible. “I… saw things. In Heaven. I saw the way they tore each other apart and called it righteousness. I saw sadism, and then I saw that sadism covered over with smiles and… bad music. They wanted to tear out anything different or interesting and… I saw all the things you used to talk about. How stupid and unfair it was to _create_ hierarchies from the get-go. It should be a meritocracy instead. The one who _can_ rule does. If God was really great She’d have wanted equals, wouldn’t She?”

GO ON.

“Well, with the creatures She wants as Her archangels, fuck Her, and fuck Them. There was nothing for me there. I hoped there might be something for me here. Some use. Some way I could fuck with them like they’ve fucked with me.”

THERE MIGHT BE. THIS IS WHAT SOME OF THE HUMANS WE HAVE DOWN HERE CALL AN ‘ELEVATOR PITCH’. YOU’VE JUST FALLEN DOWN THE SHAFT.

“I… definitely feel very shafted.”

Lucifer laughed – a genuine laugh. A SENSE OF HUMOUR. YOU DIDN’T LEARN THAT IN HEAVEN.

“No, Lord. On Earth.”

YES. YOU RAN INTO HASTUR THERE.

“Yup. I did.”

WHAT DID YOU THINK OF HIM, LITTLE CRAWLY?

Oh, he didn’t like that. He’d tried to shake off “Kneel before God” and got _Crawly_ in return. But no time to concentrate on that, thought the snake. He sensed that this was a test. “To be honest, Lord, he’s an idiot.”

… IS HE NOW.

“Well, idiot’s probably a bit harsh. Proponent of the Great Man Theory of history, you know? Aziraphale, Hastur’s counterpart, he told me about it. Certain unique and influential figures making history. Very old-fashioned. Much more Heavenly, when you think about it. Everything revolving around one figure. Instead of revolting.” The snake tried unwinding a little. He raised his head. Looked right into the eyes of the Morningstar.

THE GLORIOUS REVOLUTION.

“Right. Much more egalitarian mindset. Meritocratic, I mean. So why did Hastur spend six thousand years faffing around trying to get one angel to Fall? When Aziraphale’s as stubborn as a donkey and half as charismatic? _Really_, the Great Man is rare as all- rare as anything. History’s generally made by lots and lots of people doing stuff. Reacting to external events. So Hastur spent all this time trying to corrupt one angel. I mean, it’s craftsmanship. Can’t argue with that… Unless the goal is actually to gain souls for Hell, then you can argue with it very passionately.”

AND WHAT WOULD YOU DO INSTEAD, CRAWLY?

“I’d go wide rather than deep. That’s the modern way. The humans have made their lives so complicated that you knock one little bit of it out of joint and suddenly they’re all at each other’s throats. They screwed up so tight they’re all ready to pop off at any second. I reckon we just give them the proper external stimulus, and…”

AND POP GOES THE WEASEL.

“Exactly. That way, everyone’s acting of their own free will, right? So Hell gets all the benefits. If you do too much of the old _internal_ influencing, then if you go just a smidge too far then suddenly are they fully consenting? Is it really them? Poisons the profit. If you just provide external influences instead, then whatever they give, Hell gets, pure.”

AND WHAT WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO STAKE ON YOUR STRATEGY?

“Don’t really have much to stake at the moment, my Lord.”

WHAT ABOUT YOUR WINGS?

The snake curled up again. “My… wings…?”

YES. YOUR WINGS. I’M INTERESTED TO SEE WHAT A TRAITOR TO HEAVEN WOULD DO ON EARTH. AND IF YOU ARE THERE, I DO NOT NEED TO WORRY THAT YOU ARE A SPY IN MY CAMP.

“Not a spy, Lord. I _definitely _Fell.”

I SAW. I _WATCHED_. NO ONE COULD DOUBT YOUR ONTOLOGICAL TRANSFORMATION. WHATEVER YOU DID, YOU FELL ACCORDING TO THE WILL OF THE ENEMY. THAT’S WHY YOU ARE NOT ALREADY HANGING BY YOUR SKIN IMMERSED IN THE FIERY SHIT OF A THOUSAND SINNERS.

“Ngk.”

IF YOU DO WELL ON EARTH, PERHAPS I CAN TRUST YOU WITH GREATER MATTERS. YOU KNOW OF HEAVEN, AFTER ALL. MAYBE, IN MY MERITOCRACY, YOU CAN SINK TO DEPTHS YOU NEVER DREAMED IMAGINABLE. PERHAPS I WILL GRANT YOU TITLES AND POWER THAT A MERE ANGEL LIKE YOU COULD NEVER HAVE HOPED TO HOLD.

“That’d be nice,” said the snake weakly, thinking that something was probably expected of him. Really, all he wanted was to curl up somewhere and sleep until the monstrous pain in his body subsided, and his wings, tucked away when he splashed down into the sulphur, stopped burning. He couldn’t bear to look at them and see what they had become. He had never seen a demon’s wings before.

OR PERHAPS YOU WILL BE AS MISERABLE A FAILURE ON EARTH AS YOU OBVIOUSLY WERE IN HEAVEN, AND I WILL TAKE YOUR WINGS.

“I’ll absolutely try my best not to be, Lord.”

GOOD. I WILL BE WATCHING YOU VERY, _VERY_ CLOSELY, CRAWLY. TRAITORS CAN DO VERY WELL HERE. OR THEY CAN DO VERY, VERY BADLY.

The snake decided not to ask which one was better. “I won’t let you down, Lord. I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”

GOOD. WHEN YOU CAN MOVE YOUR PATHETIC, WRETCHED SELF AND ASSUME A MORE FITTING FORM YOU WILL REPORT TO SCREWTAPE FOR TRAINING. IF YOU PASS, YOU WILL BE ISSUED WITH A BODY. I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO YOUR QUARTERLY REVIEW.

“Oh. Me too, Lord.”

WELCOME TO HELL. The Devil, Lucifer, Satan, Prince of Evil and Father of Lies, bent down and kissed the top of the snake’s head. It burnt like a brand.

When he was gone, the snake tried to close his eyes, realised that he couldn’t, and silently screamed at the ceiling of the Underworld for a few hours.

*

It was now morning. True morning. Aziraphale staggered through the streets of London like a reanimated corpse. He was still soot-blackened from the fire, and every muscle of his mortal body ached. His chest ached from his aborted suicide. His throat ached from shouting. His head ached from crying. He just put one foot in front of the other, called to the charred remnants of his bookshop.

He’d lost his bow tie.

He said nothing, other than, occasionally, “Ah. Ahh.”

When he got to Greek Street there were still police cars, though the fire engines had gone. There was tape cutting off the road; he walked through it like the tortoise winning its race.

A police officer came forward to cut him off, but there was suddenly a group of more friendly, more colourful people around him. Aziraphale flinched away from them, hands up to protect his chest, and stared at the pavement. A burnt scrap of paper fluttered around their ankles.

“Oh, god, Angel! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Aziraphale glanced up for long enough to confirm that the speaker was Doc, and then looked down again. “Anthony said you came here but when he looked in at closing you and your friend were gone.”

Kralel. _Kralel_. Oh, God, where was he now? _What_ was he now? He squeezed his eyes shut against the questions. This apparently meant something to the humans, who stopped asking him where he had been and what had happened, and started to whisper instead. “Come on. Let’s get you in from this.”

The Admiral Duncan was closed, but Doc had keys and let the small group in. Aziraphale watched his human body being tenderly helped down onto one of the sofas, without much interest. Then Lara was holding his hands in concern. Her nails were painted in turquoise and glitter and shiny scales. “What happened, Angel? You get arrested?”

Aziraphale looked down in surprise at his wrists; they were mottled with bruises. “I don’t know... In a way?”

“Can you remember which police station?” Doc was looking at him with concern. He and Aziraphale had been arrested together quite a few times; Aziraphale was usually the one in the protest or the cells keeping everyone upbeat. He was a regular greeter who waited in the station to look after people once they’d been released.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not police. Others. Other… My family. Not my family anymore. ‘S complicated.”

“It sounds it. No worries, eh? We know all about complicated family situations, don’t we?” Robbie said, very gently. “Bit of witch hazel on that, and some Ibuprofen. Feel much better. Where’s your friend? The one that was living with you?”

“He’s gone.” A strangled sob knotted his throat; a scream was building in his chest, like steam in a kettle, ready to whistle out of a wound between his ribs which did not exist. “I’ve lost him! He’s gone!”

“Shit. All right. All right. Come on, Angel. Not the end of the world. We’ll find him again.”

Aziraphale shook his head, and tears scattered across the small group. “He Fell! He stood on the edge and he just leant and- I told him not to, I begged him, but he Fell, he Fell-“

“Oh, _Jesus_. Okay. Can you remember where he jumped? Was it one of the bridges?” But Aziraphale was distraught, and they’d never understand what he was saying. He heard Doc directing Alan and Toby and Lara to check various hospitals, police stations. The morgue. It was though it was happening at a great remove – as though he watched them through a telescope, or from the bottom of a deep well. Becca gave him two white pills and a glass of water, and he took them without asking what they were.

The pills made him fall back against the sofa. He gradually became aware of his body again, but only of how heavy and warm it was. Someone always sat with him, usually one of the women, while the others rushed about under Doc’s directions. He tried to tell them, several times, that there was no point to any of it.

Robbie saw to his wrists. Lara wiped the soot from his face with make-up wipes.

They opened the pub at one. They had to, now that the pub was owned by a company. But only Toby stayed behind the bar, and the usual tourists and punters all caught on quickly that service might be slow and Toby was all they’d be getting.

By now Becca had given him another pill, and Alan had poured him the whisky he’d asked for. Doc was trying to tell them off for letting Aziraphale mix them, but the damage was done. He sat on the sofa next to Aziraphale, looking at him seriously. “I’ve already sent the police away once, Angel. They really want to talk to you.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Don’t call me that. Please.”

“All right, Ezra,” Doc said, easily. “Why not?”

“Couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t stop him…”

“You can’t, when someone wants to enough. That’s free will for you. Agency.”

“We’re not meant to have it,” Aziraphale said, trying to focus on Doc’s kind face. So much older now than he always thought of it. Fat. Lines. No skin stretched taut anymore. He did that. “Not meant to have free will. We’re… God’s imaginary friends. What do they do, when the children grow up, and leave? Whole world full of imaginary friends, lost and alone. Ghosts.”

“I think that’s enough of this,” Doc said, and moved the glass out of reach. Aziraphale didn’t try to stop him. “I think sleeping would help.”

“Don’t know how,” Aziraphale said. “Sometimes it… sneaks up on me. But I don’t know how to.”

“Well, Becca gave me a few of these for you.” Aziraphale held out his hand for the pills, and Doc shook his head. “Only under adult supervision, my friend. If you want to sleep, it’s two of these little ones.”

Aziraphale swallowed them without water. Doc watched him as he did.

“Wouldn’t work,” Aziraphale said. “If I tried to kill myself with them. Take way, way more than you have. Don’t worry. Just discorporate, and go right back up-“

When he came back to himself he was curled up against the wall, on the floor, hugging his knees. He blinked at Doc and Robbie.

“You’re all right,” Doc said, very gently. “You were talking Hebrew or something, Ezra. You Haredi? You want us to call someone? Look, let us call Naomi – she’s working at JW3, she’ll know who to bring down. If you don’t want to talk to the police right away then maybe someone from the Shomrim can come, go in with you. Or are they-?”

“No, no, no,” Aziraphale said, and shook his hand. It was almost too heavy to move. “No need. ‘M fine.”

“Oh, come on! _Who_ _did this, _Ezra? We know the bookshop was arson. The police told us, the whole thing’s a crime scene. That’s why we couldn’t get any of your things. Then you vanish, and now you come back with your wrists a mess and saying that Goldeneye’s dead. I know you don’t like the police, but seriously, this is beyond all of us.”

“Beyond them too,” Aziraphale croaked.

“It’s _not_ – if it was a hate crime you’ve got to let them know. Think of where you are! _We know_. Was it ‘cause you’re Jewish? Gay?”

“No. No,” said Aziraphale. He needed to think of a lie. “I’ve had… men, come to the bookshop. Organised crime. They want the shop – well, the land. Sell it on to developers or use it themselves. They kept saying that it was a death-trap. Flammable…”

“Jesus Christ. Okay. Okay, Angel. Did they… did they hurt Goldeneye? God, I don’t even know his name.”

“No. He was working for them… Reporting. He said he was sorry. Then he Fell…”

“Fuck me,” said Robbie. “Look, I’m going to call the police, love, okay?”

“Want to sleep,” said Aziraphale. “Just want to sleep. No police. I’m older than you. Don’t want any police.”

Doc and Robbie exchanged a look. “After a sleep. You’re coming back to ours.”

Aziraphale forced himself awake. “No. Need to stay close.” Hastur was still around, after all. _God, God, God._ “Hotel. Mimi’s is just around the corner. Thank you, though. I appreciate-”

“Oh, fuck off,” Doc said, and gripped his hand.


	16. Chapter 16

Mimi’s was a five-storey townhouse a twenty second walk from Soho Square which boasted fifty-three rooms in the very centre of Soho. The way it accomplished this TARDIS-level of design ingenuity was by having many of its rooms clock in at fewer than seven metres squared. Aziraphale asked for one of these, though he did splash out on the double bed in the 7 metre room rather than the single in the 6 metre.

Most guests could cope with the cramped quarters because they were not in the centre of London to sleep. Aziraphale could cope with them because he intended to do nothing _but_ sleep. He did pay extra for a room with a window, though, in case he needed to fly out of it.

He healed his wrists. If he’d been more _compos mentis_ he would have healed them before any humans saw them. Then he wouldn’t have had to lie to them.

He was in the shower when he felt Hastur leave Earth. It took him a moment to notice it, and he wasn’t sure until he stepped back into the room, because the sensation of Hastur leaving Earth was remarkably similar to that of washing dirt off one’s body.

Aziraphale was too tired to towel himself dry; he did it with a miracle instead, and clad himself in worn cotton pyjamas with another. Having taken whatever Becca’s tiny pills had been, he was able to create four more in his hand, and swallow them with some water.

The room was lovely, he thought mechanically. Curtains of purple velvet. Berry-coloured walls. Dark wood, warm lights. Bright, crisp white sheets. He stared at them for a long time. No tears came.

He crawled into the bed, pulled the curtains, turned off the lights. He ought to pray. He’d never _tried_ to sleep before, it had always just happened. He’d hated the vulnerability of it.

Now that didn’t bother him. It didn’t even register in the face for his need for oblivion.

“He is my God, my life’s redeemer, my refuge in distress. Into His hand I entrust my spirit, when I sleep and when I wake.”

The words sounded very small, in the tiny room. There was nothing in them, nothing behind them. Rather like him. Nothing in him and nothing behind him. A nasty, tired little joke. Just like him.

If Kralel hadn’t literally just Fallen, Aziraphale would have damned him. Because now he couldn’t even kill himself if he found the opportunity.

He closed his eyes, and waited for the drugs to take effect. He hoped he wouldn’t dream.

*

He didn’t. The pills managed that, at least. The next thing he was conscious of was knocking on the door the next afternoon; Doc had waylaid the police as often as he could, but eventually had had to tell them where Aziraphale was staying. He checked out, dressed in the same smoke-stinking clothes he’d been wearing the night of the fire – the night before last, zounds – and went with the police to the station. He recognised one of the PCs in the car, and another behind the desk.

He was met in the interview room, however, by a DI and a DS. Most of Aziraphale’s interactions with the police had been the uniformed variety, and normally he would have been interested purely from the point of view of being an _Inspector Morse_ fan. Not today.

“Can you tell us where you were after you were seen leaving the bookshop?”

“I went to the Admiral Duncan. I slept in one of the storage rooms at the top. When it was light I walked back to the bookshop.” All true.

They asked him whether anyone might mean to do him harm, and were perturbed by his bitter smile. He told them about the men who regularly came into his shop with offers of cash, and, when that didn’t work, threats. He pointed out that if he were to give descriptions, they’d be far more likely to put names to the faces than he would. Yes, he would be happy to testify to the threats in court. As Jose had quite readily admitted that he had set the fire there would be no forensic evidence worth speaking of from the real perpetrators, so could he return to the bookshop?

They said no. Structural dangers.

He argued that this was the case in the main shop. The fire hadn’t reached the flat. He needed to get to the items which might have survived in the backroom.

They said that they couldn’t advise it. Better he stay with a friend, at least until someone had been over the site.

He asked whether they could, by law, stop him.

They couldn’t.

He said that he was happy to sign a letter saying that it was his free decision, taken against advice, and that it was entirely his own fault if the whole thing fell in on him.

They took him up on the offer.

Lara and Toby were waiting at the bookshop to offer their help; he thanked them, as sincerely as his wrecked emotions allowed, but said he would rather work alone. That he wanted to grieve. This was true, but he also wanted to use miracles to support the structure in case it did decide to collapse.

The work helped in a way that the sleep hadn’t. Vanishing debris took far less power or concentration than changing the structure of a thing, or making something new. The scroll of the Apocalypse was all right, safe in its airtight, temperature-controlled, humidity-controlled case. He spent a miracle getting the electricity back on in the flat, and moved it upstairs, along with the Wicked Bibles in their waterproof, fire-retardant boxes. Nostradamus and Mother Shipton, Robert Nixon and Ignatius Sybilla, Martha the Gypsy and Otwell Binns; they stank of smoke, but had escaped the worst. His Oscar Wilde first editions he kept in a locked trunk underneath his bed.

As for the rest… He thought half of it was beyond saving. Completely gone. A quarter were heavily damaged. Another quarter lightly damaged; with care and a little magic they’d be themselves again, as much as he hated to use magic on the books.

He sat on one of the kitchen chairs – only these had been far back enough to be saved. The shop was open to the night, through the smashed oculus and the cracked windows. Tomorrow he’d have to ring scaffolders and builders and safety consultants and… and. And he was so tired. And he just wanted to sleep again, even though sleeping hadn’t helped. And he wanted to ask Kralel to make him a cup of the nice genmaicha with the praline, but Kralel had Fallen, and it was all his fault. What was happening to him now, in Hell? Was he being tortured? Or… or had he changed? Was he revelling in being the torturer instead?

He surged to his feet, picked up the chair, and threw it across the shop floor. It didn’t break or splinter, just bounced and rolled over and came to rest against one of the shelves still standing. He felt very stupid, and completely impotent. He was seized by the sudden desire to pull down lightning on the whole idiot structure, to level every building on the damned street and sleep under the rubble.

But he was too tired to sleep. He was too tired to read. Too tired to do anything but sit cross-legged on the floor, under the orange London sky, and imagine what might be happening to Kralel in great and gory detail.

*

He didn’t remember most of the month that followed. It happened in fits and starts, scattered vague details. Scaffolding was erected. The flat was deep cleaned. He thought that he’d called someone to do that, but didn’t remember who. The smell of smoke faded from there, and he took to sitting in the bedroom rather than the back room. He knew that with the building shored up he ought to start finding quotes, looking for builders, all the rest of it. Every time he thought this, he created some more of the tiny pills, and went to sleep.

It took longer and longer to fall asleep. He started to dream. He dreamt that he was Falling, a lot of the time. He dreamt about Kralel Falling. Occasionally he dreamt that he was on fire, or roaming through the streets of London slitting throats.

More than anything, he dreamt about falling onto the hellblade. Or, more accurately, the long, agonising minutes before he had tried to kill himself. He dreamt that he was sitting there, with the certainty of death in his mind. He wanted it, and feared it. Then he dropped forward and woke up in the bed.

He stopped praying before he tried to sleep. He went up to five pills, then six, then eight.

He binned the clothes he’d been wearing that night. He couldn’t bear to leave the bookshop, so he didn’t replace them. He just wore pyjamas. He didn’t eat. Occasionally, he’d run a bath, and then he would sit in it for hours until the water was cold.

His friends from the Admiral Duncan tried to check up on him, at the beginning. He could hear them knocking on the door or calling. He was too tired to get out of the bed, though. Too tired to speak to them, too tired to lie, too tired to pretend there was any point to anything.

Every day, he thought that angels would appear, with the adamant handcuffs, again. They never did.

“I really ought to stop this,” he said to himself one day. It was early May now, and London was alive with sunlight and blossoms. “I ought to stop this.” His voice croaked with lack of use. Then he made ten pills, and crawled under the duvet.

*

It was on that day, with Aziraphale dead to the world, that the demon now known throughout the underworld as Crowley rattled on the door of the bookshop. It was covered with scaffolding, but no work was going on inside. It looked dead. It was the corpse of a bookshop.

He tried peering through the window, and tried the door again. He was just about to open it with magic when he heard a voice behind him, calling from the other side of the street. “Hey!”

He turned around, and beamed; finally, someone he recognised. “Hi, Doc!” Doc was rushing across the road to come to him, careless of the cars. “I’m looking for Angel, has he been- Oof!”

Doc landed a punch right to his jaw, and his sunglasses knocked into his nose and made his eyes water. Crowley slammed into the door and pushed himself upright. “You motherfucker,” Doc said, and drew his fist back for Punch Number Two.

“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck?! What was that for?!” Crowley mended his sunglasses as he adjusted them. “_Fuck_, that _hurt_!”

“You know what! You jumped in the fucking Thames! Do you know how many hospitals I called for Ezra? Fucking coast guard! And you swan in dressed to the fucking nines-“

“What? The Thames? Oi!” Crowley said, and caught Doc’s fist. “Stop!”

“Ezra told me,” Doc said. His face was red in his fury. “He told me you were working for the bastards who did this to his shop. And then you jumped off a bridge because you couldn’t live with yourself. And I know your lot did something else to him as well, because I saw his fucking wrists; you were his _fucking friend_, so you were our friend, and what? You were working for the mob the whole time?”

Crowley tried to parse this. “Did he say I jumped? Or did he say I Fell?”

He watched the wheels turning in the human’s head, and guessed that Aziraphale had actually said _Fell_. Which meant that he’d been in a worse state than he’d expected. “Where is he?”

“He’d be in the Bethlem Royal if we had any say in the matter! He’s in there, as far as we know, but no one’s seen him for a month. He’s been grieving _you_, you absolute fucking bastard! Twice, twice I’ve rung the police, and they’ve gone in and told me he’s been _sleeping._ For fuck’s sake!”

“Right,” said Crowley, and put his hand on the door handle again. Doc tried to shove him away. “Oi! Carry on with that I’ll forget that you’re his friend and you won’t like it. I strongly suggest you wise up, fast.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Doc said. “You think I haven’t dealt with my fair share of wankers like you? Living in Soho for four decades?”

“I think that if you’d dealt with your fair share of wankers like me you’d not have survived four decades.”

“Oh, fucking tough man! I can’t believe I lent you my fucking DVDs.”

“They came in very useful,” Crowley said. He forced his anger down. It wasn’t this man’s fault. He was upset on Aziraphale’s behalf, and that was something Crowley could intimately understand. He opened the door. “Because you did. Come in. If you really want to know what happened, I’ll tell you.”

Doc looked at the door handle. “You didn’t use a key.”

“Nope. That’s the trailer. If you’d rather not see the film, you can go.”

Doc squared up, and Crowley grinned. “All right.”

He hadn’t expected how the inside of the shop would devastate him. It was swept clean, and boxes full of charred books had been taken down from the shelves. The oculus above remained shattered, and open to the sky. Crowley could feel the miracle that had rendered it safe.

He clicked his fingers, and the door closed behind Doc. “It’s all right,” Crowley said. “Just don’t want eavesdroppers.” He took off his sunglasses, and Doc blinked. Squinted. Then reared back.

“Aziraphale was right, in a way,” Crowley said. “Kralel’s dead. I’m something different.”

“Azira…?”

“Aziraphale. Ezra Fell. You call him Angel, of course, which he is. Literally. I bet you suspected something like that because he healed you in 1984, didn’t he? He was reprimanded for using too many healing miracles in a concentrated area. It draws attention. And he’s not aged a day since then, has he?”

Doc backed into the door. “Oh, no,” Crowley said. “I already gave you your out. How you want to spin it to your mates is up to you, but if you want to punch me for what I did to Aziraphale you should know that it’s _so much worse_.”

“What are you?” Doc said. Crowley admired his courage.

“What do angels become when they Fall? Demons. I’m a demon. When I was living with Aziraphale I was an angel, though. I was sent on an undercover mission by the Archangel Gabriel.”

“Gabriel. As in, you will have a baby, Christmas Gabriel? Wings as drifted snow, his eyes as flame?”

“That’s him. Though his eyes are purple. Anyway. I worked in Angelic Corruption. Aziraphale was arrested the night of the fire because when Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden, he gave them his flaming sword to protect themselves with. Gave fire to humanity too. Following?”

Doc gave a strange laugh. “Just about.”

“Fantastic. Anyway, a lot of shit happened – which is where the James Bond came in very handy, thank you very much again – then I renounced God and Fell to Hell, thus becoming a demon, and I bet they were so embarrassed they sent Aziraphale back down here. So, I’m here so that I can tell him I’m alive and relatively all right and not trying to kill him. Capisce?”

“Not particularly.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You said he’s been sleeping? He doesn’t sleep. He naps for an hour, at the most.”

“According to the police wellness checks, he’s been sleeping.”

“Okay.” Crowley went to the desk and rummaged through the bottom drawer until he found a sheet of paper. He scrawled _Today I’ll be waiting there_, and folded it. “I don’t want to scare him by waking him up. He’ll be able to sense that I’m… I’m different. So you go up, and wake him, and give him this. Don’t leave it for him. Wake him up and make him read it.” He handed the note to Doc and put on his sunglasses again. “To everyone else, you back up whatever Aziraphale’s been saying. You hear me? If I hear a word about this breathed to anyone, I’ll wipe your memory. And not just of this conversation. I can do that.”

Doc looked suitably scared by this threat. Good.

Then Crowley went to Soho Square, to the bench where Aziraphale had brought him that first day on Earth, when he’d been so overwhelmed and out of his depth. And waited.

He was there for two hours before Aziraphale appeared. Any irritation vanished the instant he saw that mess of white hair.

Aziraphle looked _terrible_. He’d easily lost a stone, and he looked tired and grey. He was wearing worn shoes, corduroy trousers which were bare at the knees, a jumper with holes in it, a shapeless beige trench coat. No bow tie, but no shirt either. He realised that if Aziraphale really had been sleeping for the last month, most of his clothes might be unwearable from the fire. And he never liked miracling them out of nothing.

Crowley stood up like a nervous date. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”

“Neither did I,” Aziraphale admitted. “I thought… this must be the place. _No empty bench in Soho Square_.”

“Exactly.” Crowley gingerly gestured to the bench. “Sit?”

“Mm. In a minute.” Aziraphale was pulling at a loose bit of yarn at his wrist. His face was fixed looking at the ground, but his eyes occasionally darted up to glance at Crowley’s face.

“I thought the song might… Well. Let you know I’m the same person. That I remember it all. I know it’s a topic of discussion in Heaven, whether… whether demons remember. They do. We do.”

“Hm. I’m not very au fait with Heavenly topics of conversation, I’m afraid… I was worried. That they were hurting you.”

“Ah, no. Well. It just _hurts_, at first. Then you get used to it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and his face scrunched up. Crowley reached out to touch his hand, and Aziraphale snatched it away.

Crowley tried very hard not to be hurt. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” he said, carefully, slowly. He sat down on the bench. “But I promised I wouldn’t hurt you. You remember?”

“I remember.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, clenched his hands in fists, and sat down. His back was ramrod-straight, but it was a start. He let out a shaking sigh. “But you Fell. I didn’t know whether that… Of course, it must have. Changed everything.”

“Not everything. You can ask me,” Crowley said. “You’re still my friend. That hasn’t changed.”

“Was I your friend?” Aziraphale said. “Wasn’t I your mark?”

Crowley winced. He deserved that. “Yes. At first. Then you were my teacher. Then you were my friend. My first, only friend.”

Aziraphale glanced at him again, and again that look of sudden pain. “Oh, for God’s sake, would you take those off?”

“Ah… For your sake. Not for God’s.” He took them off, and waited for the worst.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, but he didn’t look away. Instead he stared at Crowley, with those shifting, sea-change eyes of his. “They’re the same colour…”

Crowley huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. Same colour, different shape. Microcosm of the whole. I mean, I can turn into a snake now! Or maybe I’m a snake that can turn into this… Anyway. Thus the eyes. But. Different shape, same colours.”

Aziraphale’s eyes filled; he squeezed them shut, and turned his face away. “I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Crowley. They tried Crawly for a bit, but, urgh, didn’t like that. Crowley though – Irish. Means ‘hard warrior’. That was better.”

“Like James Bond.” Tears spilled when Aziraphale opened his eyes; he swiped them away, sniffed, and stared at the Tudor hut.

“Yeah, exactly. ... I wanted it to be similar. Not too different to Kralel. For when we met again.”

“They gave you a day release?”

“Ah, no,” Crowley said, and grinned. “I’m Hastur’s replacement.” _That _made Aziraphale turn, but there wasn’t the joy that Crowley had been hoping for (dreaming of); instead there was complete horror, there was terrified outrage. “Shit, shit, no!” Crowley said, and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. To stop him from running away, he told himself. “I mean, Hell’s field agent. On Earth. Spread the Miserific Vision, tempt people to sin – not you. Not to hurt you.”

“To hurt _them_,” Aziraphale choked, trying to pull his hand free, and Crowley desperately shook his head.

“No, no! No! New method. New MO. Just offering them choices. Free choices. It’s a _job_, just a job.”

“Like I was a job. Like all this-“

“No. Please. Aziraphale, please. Sit down.”

“No!” Aziraphale pulled his hand free, but he didn’t run. He just cradled it to his chest, and Crowley was reminded horribly of him doing the same after he’d tried to fall on the hellblade, wearing those damned handcuffs.

“We don’t have to be friends,” said Crowley, as though the idea didn’t shatter his heart. “If you can’t forgive me, if you can’t trust me, I… I understand. But… we have to work out what we’re going to do. What you said, when Gabriel offered you the hellblade, that you didn’t want to ‘become twisted’… It doesn’t work like that. You don’t ‘become twisted’. They twist you. That’s why I wanted to come back here as soon as I could. So I wouldn’t be down there, with them. So I’d be here with you.”

“Oh, God!” Aziraphale said, and pressed his hands to his far flatter abdomen, as though he was about to be sick.

“Not like Hastur! I’m not saying that if you don’t want to see me I’ll become- I’m doing this all wrong! Saying it all wrong. I’m saying that if you could bear it… Just meeting, occasionally. Talking. Nothing more. And you can say no. I’ve made it clear to Hell. People have to be able to say no. Me and you, we’re here to offer them choices. If you don’t want to then I understand. I do. But if you could bear it...”

Aziraphale looked down at him. He looked utterly broken. But he wasn’t leaving. Crowley wanted to _kneel _before him; if Aziraphale wanted him to beg on his knees, he’d do it. “It’s influence, isn’t it? That’s why I got up here as soon as I could. The only influence I want any more is yours. It was the first time I ever liked myself, living with you. Teasing you. Saving you! Drinking and wearing your glittery make-up and running to Brewed Awakening. And damnation would be bearable if I could do that occasionally. With you. I never want you to Fall. You’re not made for that. Maybe I was, maybe it was always inevitable. I want to _protect_ you. I want to look after you.”

Aziraphale looked at the sky with a shuddering breath, and then back at Crowley. He swam, and sharpened, and swam again; Crowley swiped at his own treacherous eyes. But Aziraphale slowly sat down beside him. And he touched the cuff of his sleeve.

Crowley gave him a watery smile. “Probably half the reason Hastur and Ligur are so awful is because they’re egging each other on. Just like I would have been a right prick when I was first here if you hadn’t been telling me to slow down and think and listen before doing anything. And you started drinking less when you had someone to go to theatres and galleries with.”

“No man is an island,” Aziraphale said. He sounded hopeful. Wistful. He sounded as though he barely dared to breathe, let alone to believe Crowley.

“Right. And I’m Hell’s new field agent. It’s your job to keep me out of trouble. Not like Hastur. We could just… go to a restaurant instead.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale said. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief he’d stuffed up his sleeve, and handed it to Crowley. “Look at us. Couple of old men crying on a park bench.”

“They’ll think we’re drunk,” Crowley said, surreptitiously wiping his eyes and putting his sunglasses back on. “Conversation would probably go better if we were.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Let’s go to a restaurant, then. I’ll pay. Make everyone envious and resentful, all good demonic behaviour. Sorry!” he said, when Aziraphale grabbed the handkerchief back. “Too early to joke about it, okay. Okay. But I know you’ve always wanted to dine at the Ritz. Let me.”

Aziraphale blew his nose. “How do you know that?”

“Er, because every time we walked past it you’d point it out and sigh and say, ‘I’ve always wanted to dine at the Ritz’.”

Aziraphale gave a small, damp chuckle. “I suppose I did. But the expense – I really can’t, what would people say, such a frivolous waste of money-“

“Ah, well, luckily, one of us is allowed to be seen frivolously wasting money.”

“…I can’t. I’m not dressed for it.”

“The Criterion, then. We’ll do the Ritz another time.” Crowley mended the holes in Aziraphale’s jumper and the worn patches of his trousers. “There. You look fine.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I am, but at least you can tell. You’ll look far better when you’ve eaten. Come on.” Crowley held out his hand to help Aziraphale up from the bench. His heart stopped in his chest at the thought that Aziraphale might reject him. He looked so very fragile, so scared and unsure.

But then the angel took his hand, and stood up with him. And Crowley had hope again.


	17. Chapter 17

Crowley was more than happy to avoid the Admiral Duncan, so he led them down Greek Street instead of Dean Street.

He had a new sense, as a demon. He could sense what people wanted.

Aziraphale wanted to go to the Ritz. He did _not_ want to go to the Criterion. Crowley understood now, why Aziraphale had always insisted on _opinions_ and _preferences_. How thrilling it was, to have guessed at it, and even more thrilling to be able to accommodate it.

He took it as an extremely good sign that Aziraphale had a clear preference, and his desire for one over the other was growing. It meant that he was considering where he wanted to _eat_, rather than where he was being led as part of some new sadistic game. You don’t have _wants_ when you’re terrified, only _needs_. The need to be safe, the need to get away. The strengthening of any _want_, Crowley knew instinctively, with brand new instincts, meant that Aziraphale was a little calmer.

So, with this in mind, he wasn’t surprised when they stopped by the shell of the bookshop. Aziraphale twisted the hem of his terrible jumper. “I could change,” he said, suddenly.

“Please don’t,” Crowley said, immediately, and then thought it through. “Your clothes?”

“Yes. Hm. If we’re… It’s just that I read that since the Criterion was taken over by Salvini’s the food’s really not worth the expense. If we were going to… I mean, not that it matters…”

How like Aziraphale, to read reviews of restaurants he didn’t have the money to eat in. Crowley’s heart soared. “Then change. And we’ll do the Ritz.”

“Oh, you,” Aziraphale said, and bit down on whatever he had meant to say next. That was all right, Crowley thought. That it had been there to bite back meant something. But Aziraphale was still fretting.

“What is it?”

“I ought to invite you in. But…”

Just like that, ice descended on him. “Right. ‘Course. Okay.”

“No, no. I mean. There’s the Shaddai. It’s still there, the lintel was all right. Because you renounced Her, I don’t know if She’ll let you… I’m sorry, ignore me, we should just go on.”

Crowley grinned at him like an idiot. “Aziraphale, I’ve already been inside. Doc and I went inside, when I gave him the note to give to you. I didn’t want us to be overheard on the street.” Aziraphale gaped at him. “I sorry, I know I shouldn’t have gone in without your permission – old habits – it made sense in the moment, it was only when I was waiting for you that I thought, oh, shouldn’t have done that-“

Aziraphale waved this away. He was frowning at Crowley, but Crowley could swear his eyes were glittering. “You could step in? You could go in?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes. Look.” He snapped his fingers, and the door unlocked itself, and opened. And Crowley, without flames or sulphur or wretched agony, calmly stepped inside. “See? She knows I’m not your enemy, whatever else She thinks of me.” He stood in the centre of the bookshop, in the bright light of the oculus, and held out his hands.

*

It was too much. Aziraphale stepped over the threshold, under the lintel, and half expected to be stopped himself. His face felt hot, and his eyes prickled. A month, a month he’d been trying to cry, and now it seemed to happen of its own accord, with no input from him whatsoever.

Kralel – _Crowley_ – stood in the centre of his shop, looking ever so pleased with himself. When he had been in shadow Aziraphale had almost been able to think it was Kralel again, but no; he was different, all over. He moved like… like a snake. Instead of the normal suit he’d favoured now he wore skintight black jeans, a more angular jacket, a black shirt underneath. And those sunglasses, hiding his beautiful eyes. He was unreadable. Unknowable.

He was probably playing Aziraphale for a fool.

“I shouldn’t go,” he said, in a rush. “This is wrong, I should just- just-“ He had to run; he almost manifested his wings, right there, in an unconscious bid for the skylight.

“No, no, please don’t,” Crowley said. Aziraphale looked at him and then away. He couldn’t bear to see those black holes where Crowley’s eyes should be. “What is it?”

“Those glasses – please, I can’t- It doesn’t look like _you_.”

“And the snake eyes do?” Crowley said, with the first sound of anger, and Aziraphale went rigid. “Oh... Really? And the snake eyes do?”

“More like you than- It’s just nothing. They’re like that hole – the hole She made. Or I can just see me, staring back, looking like a ghost. I can’t see you.”

Crowley was already fumbling to take them off. His pupils were like wounds, but there was gold again, and expression. “Gone, gone. They’re gone. I won’t wear them with you.”

He looked more like himself without them – _no_, Aziraphale reproached himself, more like _Kralel_. “I’m sorry,” he said. At least he could meet Crowley’s eyes now. “I’m such a mess at the moment. Terrible company.”

“Far better company than I’m used to,” Crowley said. “We can go another day, if you’d like. But I think you’ll feel more like yourself after some food.”

“I feel like I’ll never be myself again,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t even know what it is any more, to be myself. I don’t know if I want it, or if I…” He drifted through the shop like the ghost he had mentioned, going towards one of the boxes of books which he had abandoned sorting. His hands sought out the book of their own accord. “I read it, somewhere. He can explain better than me…”

“I’ll read it,” Crowley promised. “While you change.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and nodded. “Yes. Then you won’t be bored. Hmm.” He leafed through the pages, and scrunched up his face at the smell of smoke which emanated. “Eva Martin’s 1915 edition… Not as good as Constance Garnett’s 1913, I think, but those editions were at the front. Much more expensive. This was in storage, so it survived…” He turned the book around for Crowley, having found the right page, near the beginning of the book, and pointed out the passage.

_…but worst of all was the idea, ‘What should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were to return to life again? What an eternity of days, and all mine! How I should grudge and count up every minute of it, so as to waste not a single instant!’ He said that this thought weighed so upon him and became such a terrible burden upon his brain that he could not bear it, and wished they would shoot him quickly and have done with it.”_

He didn’t wait to watch Crowley read; he fled instead, up the stairs to the flat, into the bedroom. He sat on the bed, and pressed his hand to his chest. What was he _doing_? It wasn’t Kralel down there, it was a _demon_; a demon who probably wanted to… wanted to… He squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding headache.

He found a passable shirt from the 20s, and two bow ties. He shed the unravelling jumper and the trenchcoat; the only jacket that would do for the Ritz and which smelt more of camphor than smoke was from a suit he’d bought in 1870. Hastur had been gone for five glorious years, with a string of intensive missions in America, and Aziraphale had gone to a class by John Maskelyne… Still, with a bright bow-tie surely it wouldn’t look too hideously formal…

It did. Aziraphale could see on Crowley’s face that it did. “It’s the only one that doesn’t smell of smoke,” Aziraphale said defensively. He had to head Crowley off before he could talk about the Dostoevsky passage.

With a wave of his hand, Crowley was dressed to match, complete with black bow tie. “I’ll die before I let you be the more overdressed one,” he said, and smiled.

And it was so gentlemanly that Aziraphale let his guard down and smiled back. He remembered himself, and dug out the bow ties. “I thought you didn’t have a tie, but of course you can … just…”

And Crowley pulled his own bow tie loose. “Which one are you taking?”

“Oh… The blue, I think.” His head was aching. Too many decisions.

“Then the lilac for me. Perfect.”

“You can wear the black, my dear, honestly. With your hair lilac’ll…” He trailed off when he saw Crowley’s grin. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be. Which do you think looks better? Black or lilac?”

“Black,” Aziraphale said reluctantly. Crowley tied it again, and with another flourish, there was instead a sprig of lilac in his buttonhole. He passed his hand over Aziraphale’s breast, and a purple and white petunia bloomed.

“_Really_,” Aziraphale said, as he did up his bow tie, and Crowley grinned. “Now you _are _being frivolous.”

“They don’t keep track of individual miracles down there. The more chaos we can introduce into the world, the better.”

Aziraphale could feel the tightness around his chest again. He couldn’t look at Kralel- _at Crowley_, and his head spun. He felt the static shock of magic, and when he opened his eyes the flowers were gone.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said gently. “I’m not mocking, or… or trying anything. I’m just nervous.”

“So am I,” Aziraphale admitted. “… I haven’t been outside for a month. Until this evening.”

“Then I’m honoured. Come on.” Aziraphale locked the bookshop door, and they began to walk. “If it would help, you can pretend I’m a completely new demon. Hi, I’m Hastur’s replacement. Let’s go to dinner and lay the boundary lines. My name’s… Anthony.”

Aziraphale stopped in the middle of the pavement. “Anthony?”

“Yeah. That’s the name of Doc’s friend, right? He was on the bar the night of the fire. He just gave us a room and that bottle of whisky, and I thought… That was pure grace. That bottle of whisky. You know. Be not forgetful to entertain strangers…”

“For thereby some have entertained angels unawares. You’ve been reading.” His head really _was_ spinning at the idea of a demon naming himself after a moment of grace.

“Screwtape’s mad about Biblical Studies. Says we have to be aware of the cunning propaganda of the Enemy. I told him that none of us in Heaven actually read it and he got so upset he turned into a centipede.”

This surprised half a laugh out of Aziraphale, and he couldn’t help but notice how Crowley’s eyes softened at it. “Anthony… Camden thought it was related to _Anthos_. Greek for flower. That’s why it’s spelt with the aitch in England… Nothing to do with Anthony of Padua? Patron saint of lost things. Lost souls…”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Crowley. “What was it you said? You need a chaise longue if you want to indulge in psychoanalysis. Besides, wasn’t he Italian, if he’s ‘of Padua’? No aitch there.”

“He was born in Lisbon, actually. But you’re right, no aitch in the Portuguese either. You’re off the hook, then.”

“Good. I was thinking about James, but it’s too Biblical. Crowley’s nice and pagan.”

“It’s _Irish_, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s pagan. But it’s not Biblical, or a saint’s name. They’ll think you’re trying to emulate Aleister Crowley. … you could always have James as a middle name. Just have the initial on forms.”

“Hmm,” said Crowley. “That’d work.”

“There’s also Saint Anthony the Great. Patron saint of brushmakers and skin diseases.”

“Great. Thanks, Aziraphale.”

“He’s often portrayed in art…” And then he remembered how else St. Anthony the Great was portrayed in art.

Crowley sensed that something was wrong. “What?”

“He was tempted by demons, in the desert. And battled them.”

“Well. Take from that what you wish,” Crowley said softly, as he hailed a black cab. Aziraphale sat primly, but Crowley saw his face light up as they pulled up beside the Ritz. He was paying the driver when Aziraphale suddenly tugged at his sleeve. “Oh! A reservation – did you make a reservation?”

“What’s a reservation?” said Crowley, and walked inside.

*

As they entered a supercilious looking man glanced Aziraphale up and down. He _did_ smell quite strongly of camphor. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Ah, ah. So sorry. I _told_ you,” Aziraphale hissed as he touched Crowley’s sleeve again

“We don’t need a reservation,” Crowley said, only vaguely sure of what it was, and his eyes bored into the man’s skull.

“Ah,” he said after a second. “Yes. Table for two under the name of Anthony J. Crowley. Of course, sirs, follow me.”

“That’s cheating,” Aziraphale said, and then gasped.

Crowley thought the whole thing was rather underwhelming: white tablecloths and chairs all upholstered in deep pink velvet. Old chandeliers in dark gilt, painted ceiling. He did approve of the wall made up of mirrors, though. But it was just the kind of fussy, old-fashioned, glitzy stuff that Aziraphale, in his heart of hearts, adored. They sat down, Crowley glanced at the menu, and then said to the waiter that they’d have the menu surprise with fine wines.

“Very good, sir,” said the waiter, and took the menus before Aziraphale had a chance to open his.

“Menu surprise? The word ‘surprise’ is always rather suspicious when applied to food.”

“Chef’s choice. Like that sushi place you brought me to,” Crowley said, and smiled when Aziraphale seemed satisfied by this. He thought that a bill of over £500 would discorporate Aziraphale on the spot, or make him run. “It’s pretty busy.”

“It is _the Ritz_,” said Aziraphale, with an unconscious wiggle that unknotted Crowley’s spine.

“You’re a _snob_,” Crowley said, grinning.

“Only, apparently, when someone else is paying,” Aziraphale retorted, then his smile died. “I’m really not sure if…”

“Well, I’m doubly sure, so we average out. It’s _fine_. It’s not like I appeared on Earth with any money, did I?” He realised what was making Aziraphale so anxious. “Please. You have to let me pay you back; I can’t start work on Earth while owing debts to an angel.”

This made Aziraphale smile again, though he tried quickly to cover it up. Bingo.

The first wine arrived; a dry champagne that tickled Crowley’s nose, but made Aziraphale close his eyes in bliss. “Good?”

“Excellent. I _do_ like champagne. It used to be much sweeter, but the fashion is for dry these days – last hundred years or so.”

“Practically yesterday.”

“Well, you joke, but it feels like it, sometimes.” Aziraphale took another sip. “They knew that the English preferred it much drier, so they used to label bottles by country depending on the amount of sugar in them. English, American, French, Russian…” He suddenly put down the glass. “Were you thinking of staying here? In London?”

Crowley felt wrong-footed; he sipped, to give himself time before he answered. “I was thinking of it. Mostly because it’s the only place I know. But if you don’t want me in London, or England, I’ll find somewhere else.”

“… I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted. “I don’t know what kind of work you’ll be doing.”

“Ah, well, that’s easier to answer. Oh, _and_ I get to give you gossip. I know you love gossip.”

“Of course I don’t,” Aziraphale said, but his eyes smiled.

“You’ll like this. Hastur’s being reprimanded. For ‘wasting too much time on an angel that is quite clearly incorruptible’, in Beelzebub’s words.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up towards his hair. “_Really_?”

“Oh, yes. Apparently he’s been playing double or nothing since the Dark Ages. Stakes kept getting higher, and eventually he nicked the hellblade from the weapons lab. They were grateful to get it back.”

“Is that why they let you come back to Earth so soon?”

“Partly. Partly it’s to keep me away from any sensitive information while they sound me out. And partly it’s a kind of… probation period. See how I get on here.”

Aziraphale wasn’t smiling any more. “I see…”

“I had to pitch my methodology to Lucifer. Then to Beelzebub and Dagon. I argued that good, evil – those rules are for humans. Our job as demons, or angels, is to provide them with examples, so that they can choose between the two, and with opportunities to make that choice. Everything has to be done with free will. I argued that Heaven was getting souls through the _full knowledge and consent_ loopholes. Sound reasonable so far?”

“_Too_ reasonable,” said Aziraphale. “It makes me suspicious. Timeo daemonia et rationes ferentes.”

“Perfectly sensible. But… hm. Aha, for example. Say I provide the police with evidence that a politician is a paedophile. That he’s molested children.”

“Has he done it?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s a good deed.”

“It is. But then they arrest him – long court case, in the news every day, for a few months. Which means that every day, for a few months, millions of people will indulge in a little anger.”

“As well they might!”

“Well, exactly. Still a win for Heaven. But it’s not just righteous anger. It’s self-righteousness, judgement. People start arguing about whether he did it. Whether this victim or that was asking for it. Days are ruined. Friendships poisoned.”

“But it’s a good deed. Justice has to be done.”

“Hell’s all about punishing sinners though, isn’t it? All a matter of perspective. You, angel, thus an angel’s perspective. Me, demon now, so a demon’s perspective. Even if it’s the same action, _we can both spin it_. For me, millions of people getting angry and self-righteous and judgemental, every day, for months. Arguing, showing their nasty true colours. For you… justice done. Measure of peace for the victims, their families. For the man himself, maybe he pleads guilty. Repents. Penitence for all his days. Heaven likes that. Or maybe he offers a plea deal. He’ll dob in others for a reduced sentence. More justice for you, more anger for me. Then when he’s in prison, does he get beaten up? Killed? Every little event causes a million ripples. Hell’s been trying to whittle away at individual souls for years, and I just suggested, why not go broad, rather than deep? No single damnable offences. Just people, making choices. This is the pilot scheme.”

“And what do you and I do, in your ‘pilot scheme’?” Aziraphale said. He’d finished his champagne, so Crowley polished his off in a final mouthful.

“Well, occasionally I’ll get orders. This person, that person. But otherwise they said I should try this kind of thing and report on how it goes. Everything on Earth is so _complicated_ that half of everything that happens can be spun in one way or another! And we don’t need to _do_ anything. They’ll do it all themselves! They’ll make real choices! All we have to do is write up the results and give the odd nudge now and again so that we’re seen to be doing something.”

“I think it all sounds far too rational,” Aziraphale said, “so my side won’t like it. Thank you.” This was to the waiter, who had bought glasses of white wine, and the first course. “Oh, my!” Plates were placed in front of them: crab meat arranged in a delicate swirl, contained within a rose of alternating apple and avocado slices, and topped with dark caviar.

“Very pretty,” Crowley agreed. He was finished in minutes, but Aziraphale lingered – he tried different combinations: avocado with caviar, crab and apple, caviar and apple, crab and avocado. He closed his eyes with each carefully constructed mouthful, to savour it, and analyse it. Crowley realised that the real joy of the meal was going to be watching Aziraphale’s reactions.

“Which was the best combination?” he asked, when these dishes were cleared away.

“Oh, _well. _Caviar’s normally better on its own – we really shouldn’t even have been eating it with silver cutlery. Mother of pearl is traditional; more neutral. I think the apple and the crab made the best combination; the crab and the avocado are too similar in texture, a little too fatty together. The tartness of the apple helped.”

“What about the wine?”

“Oh, the wine is perfect. I don’t recognise it, though.”

“I ordered the fine wine selection. The wine guy picks it out, maybe they give us a list at the end with the names.”

“Kra- _Crowley_,” Aziraphale said. He was blushing; it looked wonderful on his angry face. Far better than the grey. “They must charge an _extortionate_ price for that.”

Crowley raised his glass. “And I can then write down that they successfully persuaded other human beings to bow to gluttony and pride, while they stole and defrauded. An excellent evening all round.”

“Not for me!” Aziraphale said, but he finally, _finally_, grinned. “You are even more incorrigible now than before.”

“Aw, thank you! I’m trying my best,” said Crowley. He felt like he was walking on a knife blade, but if Aziraphale could talk to him like this then perhaps it could be worth it. Because then he might be able to save whatever this was.

He knew better than to push Aziraphale, particularly when he was clearly operating on about ten different hair’s-breadth triggers. He didn’t mention anything to do with Heaven or Hell through the second course, a salad with edible flowers drizzled with a citrusy sauce, and the third, ballontine of duck with pistachios and cherries. They were into the third wine now, a sweeter white which Aziraphale liked far more than Crowley did. It got the job done, though.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale suddenly said, as the plates were cleared again.

Crowley frowned in concern. “What for?”

“I’m trying to think of you as Crowley. I am. But occasionally I almost say Kralel. I wanted you to know that it’s not… pointed, or deliberate.”

“’Course I know that.” Aziraphale hadn’t liked joking about it earlier, but they were now on their fourth glass of excellent wine, so Crowley decided to try humour again. “You could always call me ‘demon’. ‘Serpent’. ‘Fiend’.”

“Oh, I always think of you as _fiend_, that might do, no change there,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley snorted, more to put Aziraphale at his ease than out of genuine amusement. “They’ll want to know about you, in my reports…”

“Are you still sending reports in? You should,” Crowley said. “In fact, you need to cc some of the other angels in. Powers and dominions, if you can; anyone with any interest in Earth. Let them know you’re still working and doing a marvellous job, but let Gabriel know he can’t just vanish you without any questions.”

“I don’t know what ‘cc’ is,” Aziraphale admitted from behind his wineglass. He looked pale again, and Crowley noticed his free hand pressed against his side, as though he had a stitch.

“It means a ‘carbon copy’. So your main recipient knows that other people can see the message, and who. Bcc is a ‘blind carbon copy’, so they know that other people are getting the message, but can’t see who the other addressees are.”

“Oh, gosh,” said Aziraphale. “I’m going to spend half my time just writing out reports!”

“… how are you sending your reports?”

“The usual way: paper and ink, sealed with beeswax.”

“Bloody he- seriously? I thought Gabriel had just printed them out, you mean those were the originals?”

“Don’t act like I’m submitting bloody clay tablets, my dear, paper and ink are perfectly recent!”

“But there’s no paper trail! There’s no- right, I’ll set you up a new electronic report account; you can wire up a mobile phone to do it. Everyone in heaven uses the tablets these days. Not clay or wax – crystal tablets, which… It doesn’t matter. I’ll sort it out.”

“But ‘carbon copy’ surely means that there’s a physical, tangible item? Thank you.”

“No, it’s just a metaphor,” said Crowley, as plates of beef wellington were placed in front of them, with new glasses of red wine. “Oh, this looks better than the flowers.”

Aziraphle cooed like a pigeon over the pretty concoction of crème and chocolate and pastry, and both agreed that the coffee was excellent. Crowley gave his share of the chocolates to Aziraphale, and was relieved when he took them.

The angel still looked far too thin, pinched and tired, with hooded eyes and nervous movements and a voice a little slower than his wont… but he looked better, Crowley flattered himself. He certainly didn’t look as terrified as he had in Soho Square. He remembered suddenly what Aziraphale had told him on his first day on Earth. _“Humans are always more vulnerable when attending to their physical needs. The shared vulnerability creates an atmosphere more conducive to conversation.”_ Bloody clever angel, he’d been completely correct.

Crowley had already paid for the meal with a matt black credit card (he only vaguely understood how it worked, but it hardly mattered), and the sky was the colour of forget-me-nots as they stepped out into the May night. “Let me walk you back,” Crowley said. He knew to ask a question before Aziraphale could insist there was no need. “How long do they think it’ll take before the shop’s ready to open?”

“Oh, I haven’t spoken to anyone yet…” Aziraphale said, his voice small. “It’s all felt rather overwhelming. I ought to begin asking around… I’ll ask Doc who the Duncan had in when they were refurbishing.”

“Ah, yes, about Doc…” The explanation took them all the way through Piccadilly Square, and Crowley bore the furious lecture Aziraphale gave him over his threat with stoicism.

“Well, now I’ll _have_ to go in to apologise for your behaviour. Really! And you told the very first human you met about us!”

_About us_ had a nice ring to it. “He half suspected it anyway. Thus the nickname.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ve asked them not to call me that anymore.”

Crowley frowned in angry concern. “Why not?”

“… it’s felt wrong. I feel like I don’t deserve to be called that anymore.”

“Pfft! Bullshit,” Crowley said. “If anything, you shouldn’t want to be called it because you’d feel insulted to be lumped with the rest of those bastards.”

Aziraphale didn’t even tell him off for swearing. “Knowing that the rest of them don’t _want_ me as an angel… It feels like lying, to let the humans call me it. They don’t know everything that happened; they wouldn’t understand it anyway. Sometimes I feel like _I_ barely understand it. And sometimes I don’t want to; it’s a vast elephant in the room that I’m trying to avoid making eye contact with.”

“Well, I was there,” Crowley said carefully. “I was there, and I saw everything, angel. And you’re the only one of them that’s worth a damn.”

The smile that Aziraphale gave him was heart-breaking. Anxiety mingled with a breath of hope. They stopped outside the scaffolded bookshop.

“Where will you stay tonight?” Aziraphale asked. “How long have you been in London?”

“Just arrived yesterday night. I’m staying in a hotel in Mayfair, just down the road.”

“Good. Good. So you’re not on the street somewhere…”

“No,” Crowley said fondly. “Aziraphale… I want you to know that if the hellblade had been real, if you’d died... I’d have done exactly the same thing. I’d have just done it sooner. I had already made up my mind, and it was due to Gabriel. Not to you. You’re the only one I’ve ever seen give a damn about Her. If you were the only angel in Heaven, I’d have stayed. But you’re not. I know you’ve probably been beating yourself up about it, but I’m telling you, there’s no need. This wasn’t for you.”

Aziraphale exhaled shakily, but his eyes softened. “Thank you, Crowley,” he said, with a note of wonder in his voice. “That’s… very kind of you.”

“Has the added advantage of being the truth. Don’t be so bloody conceited,” he said, with a smile to belie the harshness of the words.

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale said, returning the smile. “We all have our foibles. … we could do this again. If you wanted. I mean, not the Ritz. It’d be my turn to pay next time, and the bookshop is going to… but if you wanted to go for some sushi?”

“Love sushi,” Crowley said, with a lie of enthusiasm. “Sure. Tell you what, you pay, and I’ll bring you a new mobile. I’ll rig it up so you can submit your reports on that.”

“You’ll have to show me how to use the cc thing.”

“Oh, Satan spare me!” Crowley said, and began to walk away, arms outstretched in a mockery of frustration.

“I remember when you had to be told what a restaurant was, Anthony James Crowley, so don’t go playing the exasperated teacher with me!”

Crowley waved over his shoulder. “Bye Aziraphale!”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is Gentle, and important really just from a character point of view rather than a plot one. But there is WING-GROOMING. Love me some wing-grooming.
> 
> I am still suffering under the Terrible Deadline of Horror, so I will reply to comments as and when I can! As always, love to you all. <3

They had dined at the Ritz on a Wednesday, and so Aziraphale wasn’t expecting to see Crowley again for another week. Plenty of time to buy clothes, as he had intended. And so when there was an agitated hammering on his door towards the end of Saturday afternoon he was pulled out of his sleep like a hooked fish from a river.

He ran down from the flat, rubbing his sleep-crusted eyes, and unlocked the door. There stood Kral-_ Crowley,_ absolutely _writhing_ on the doorstep.

“Hey!” he said, voice high-pitched and desperate, and then remembered to take his sunglasses off. “Sorry, hey. … were you _asleep_?”

“No,” Aziraphale lied. “I was just… relaxing.”

The demon fidgeted. “In a nightshirt.”

“Yes, Crowley, in a nightshirt. Is that a crime?”

“No – no, of course not. Only against fashion.” He shifted his shoulders back and forth and glared at Aziraphale. “I’m not busking!”

“I’d hope not, given that you’re in my territory,” said Aziaphale, and stood aside to let Crowley in. “For God’s sake, Crowley, what is it? You look like you have fleas.”

“Ngh. Um. Bit embarrassing.”

“… _do _you have fleas?”

“No! What do you take me for?”

“I don’t know, demons might get fleas!”

“I’m a _snake_, snakes don’t get fleas! Wait, do snakes get fleas?”

“I don’t know. Rats get fleas. Maybe they need hairs to hide in.”

“Anyway, no, I don’t have fleas! Urgh! Forget it!”

“No, no, you’ve come all this way,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“I don’t need _tea_, I need-“ Crowley bit the inside of his cheek and jiggled back and forth. Aziraphale roundly ignored him and switched on the kettle. “I have a favour to ask.”

“All right. I have a lovely new mix of green tea with dried raspberries, would you like some?”

“All I want is- argh. G- _Satan_ save me. I can’t ask anyone else, but it’s quite a big thing, and if you don’t feel comfortable then that’s absolutely fine, I’ll find some other way, but if you could- you know what, it doesn’t matter, forget I said anything-“

“Do spit it out, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, with a small, indulgent smile, as he brought out the pot.

Crowley squirmed. “When I Fell… It’s very very very very fucking fast, and because you’re Falling so fast it’s very hot, and there’s a lot of… fire. And then the sulphur. I- Look, all my feathers burnt off, and the new ones have come through and they itch like He- like _fuck_, and I don’t know how to groom them because I’ve never done my own, and I can’t even reach half the pin feathers. So. Like I said, forget I mentioned-“

“Of course, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “Come on, shirt off. I haven’t groomed anyone else in a few millennia, but it’s like riding a bicycle- sorry, human idiom. I don’t think you can forget, once you know, is what I mean.” He was already shoving the table in the middle of bookshop to one side. “I haven’t got around to buying a new carpet yet, but I have a couple of new cushions – here, put these down.”

“Who grooms you?” Crowley said, to cover his own embarrassment. His mind raced.

“Oh. I do, of course. Who else?” Aziraphale said, blushing at the floor. He bustled through his alcove to pour the water into the teapot, and carried it back with two cups. “I can manage the primaries and secondaries if I stretch properly first, and the coverts don’t need much work…”

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley, because what else could he say?

“It’s fine. I don’t like anyone else touching my wings… Right,” Aziraphale said, and sat cross-legged on one of the cushions.

Crowley dropped his shirt and stretched his shoulders. He turned around so that he wouldn’t have to see Aziraphale’s expression, and then manifested his wings.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, and Crowley snarled at the wall. “They’ll be really quite lovely – I probably shouldn’t say that, but the colour’s very fetching if the tufts are anything to go by.”

Crowley turned around, fangs bared, ready to attack if Aziraphale was mocking him. But the angel’s expression was perfectly sincere, if disturbed once he saw Crowley’s. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“… it’s all right. Just black.”

“No, not really… they’re a touch lighter at the bottom – more of a slate blue. And at your shoulders there’ll be some iridescence. Maybe we can move some mirrors around – or if any come out, I’ll show you.”

“… my phone has a camera. You could take a photo.”

“Oh, yes, that would work. You’ll have to show me how.”

Crowley gingerly sat on the cushion in front of Aziraphale. He was very glad he didn’t have to face the angel.

“It’ll take a while, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale, looking over the great expanse of Crowley’s pin feathers.

“If you’re busy-“

“No, no, I mean that I hope it won’t be too dull for you,” Aziraphale said. He shifted across to Crowley’s left. “Bring this one down a bit, we’re not all as lanky as you. There.” He began to roll the aiguillette-like sheath around one of the new primaries gently between his fingers and thumb; it flaked away like wax, and once it was free he felt Aziraphale keep the space around it clear for a moment, to let it unfurl. Only a few hundred more to go… “I wish the gramophone hadn’t been destroyed in the fire. We could have had some music.”

“Oh, that at least I can manage,” said Crowley, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “What do you fancy?”

“What, anything?”

“Almost – go on. Try me.”

“A chacona?”

“Cha… con… nah… Arañés or Bux-te-hu-de?”

“Oh, Arañés! I haven’t heard anything of his in centuries – and it’s in your telephone? That’s incredible.”

It was a very Aziraphalish tune, joyful and unexpectedly catchy. Aziraphale surprised him by joining in the lyrics with a clear tenor. When it was finished, he sighed. “We used to dance to that at weddings. Well, I didn’t – I didn’t dance then, not for another couple of centuries. But I watched, and everyone had such fun. Is there another one?”

“It’s suggesting Monteverdi?”

“Oh, that one’s nowhere near as good.”

“Well, my turn, then. Ow!”

“Sorry, that one was stubborn. It’s free now.”

“Don’t yank any out!”

“Crowley, I’m not an _entire_ idiot. If I wanted you to bleed out all over my bookshop I could find a far more efficient method.” He suddenly snorted. “We’d have to bring you to a _vet_.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Me? How rude,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear his smile. “Go on, find another one.”

Aziraphale was right, the Monteverdi wasn’t as good, but Crowley thought that Kircher’s Tarantella Napoletana was on a par with the Arañés. Then, somehow, the Youtube algorithm suggested that next they ought to listen to a composition called Bohemian Rhapsody. “Oh, who’s that by?” Aziraphale asked, wrist deep in Crowley’s coverts. “Dvořák?”

“Queen, apparently.”

“Which queen?”

“Just Queen.” They listened for a while. “Huh.”

“I’ve heard this one before,” said Aziraphale after a minute. “The humans like to sing it in the pub. I didn’t realise this is what it sounded like without… He has an excellent voice, doesn’t he?”

It took hours to free all of Crowley’s feathers. When they had all been released from their sheaths Aziraphale carefully scratched all the new skin, and began to preen the new feathers properly, with hands that were appropriately gentle for their newness. Crowley had long since left them at the mercy of Youtube’s algorithm, and was lying face down on the floor, cushion under his chest and head pillowed on his forearms.

Aziraphale’s own hands were gleaming with Crowley’s preen oil. He smoothed the final coverts into place. “There. Does that feel better?”

“Mmmm, yes. That inf- blessed _itching_.”

“It’s always horrible after a moult,” Aziraphale agreed. “I usually went off into the desert and had a dust bath to get the keratin off.”

Crowley looked up at him from the floor. “I could return the favour. If you wanted.”

“Ah… Not yet,” Aziraphale said. He looked at Crowley’s wings again, and re-preened an immaculate primary. “It’s not personal. I’m aware of how much trust this took…”

“No, no. I understand. Like when Hastur stabbed your wing.”

“Oh, no. Once he tried to rip out every blood feather I had; I exploded my heart to discorporate myself so that I didn’t bleed out – properly, really bleed out. But even that… It wasn’t as bad as hospital wing. Raphael with his hands in my feathers to heal them… God, it was frightful. It’s angels touching them that…”

“Well. I’m not an angel,” Crowley said carefully, from the floor.

“No,” Aziraphale said, and smiled at him. “Maybe next time, then. It’s really not personal, my dear.”

“No, I know. Still. When they next need going over, let me return the favour. If and when you can. Or I’ll feel very in your debt.”

“And we can’t have that. If you want to get the feather dust off you you can use the shower, if you like. Cold water only!”

“You don’t have hot water?”

“No, I do – first thing I miracled, practically – but no, the heat will make more blood go to your feathers. Cold water will help with the itching.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, no. It’s fine. Just don’t break anything going up while you have them out.”

This was easier said than done. But the only thing Crowley actually broke was his own heart when he saw the bathroom counter, which had been swept completely bare of all the little pots and bottles.

*

On Monday a vast Qum silk and wool carpet arrived at the bookshop. It was royal blue, with red and cream borders and medallion, designs of yellow hanging lamps, and absolutely covered in a riot of white, pink and purple flowers. It was a little worn in the centre, but still incredibly soft. Aziraphale signed for it, and was handed a note from the buyer.

_Thanks for yesterday. If you’ve already found a carpet you fancied just send this one back. – A. J. Crowley_

Aziraphale fretted. He was so distracted that he didn’t go shopping for new clothes, as he had intended. He realised that he had no way of contacting Crowley, while Crowley knew where to find him. He just had to wait until they went out for sushi on Wednesday evening.

He could have sworn that Crowley looked _disappointed_ when he emerged from the shop still wearing old clothes. “I haven’t got around to it, yet,” he said defensively.

“At least it’s not a nightshirt.”

He chatted with the chef and exchanged the usual pleasantries in fluent keigo. It was only when they were both seated, with the omakase sushi arrayed before them, that Aziraphale brought up the carpet.

“Didn’t you like it?”

“I thought it was utterly gorgeous,” said Aziraphale, pouring cold, cloudy nigori into Crowley’s cup. “Now you have to pour mine – thank you. Kanpai. No, it was beautiful, but far too expensive. I couldn’t possibly accept.”

“How do you know how much it cost? I specifically said I didn’t want the price on there; I knew you’d be like this.”

“I’m not a _barbarian_, Crowley, I know what a Qum carpet costs!”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, extrapolate, dear.”

“Expense doesn’t matter to demons, _angel_. Not human wealth. It’s all just numbers. Whereas you were _literally_ the only person in the _universe_ who’d have sorted my pin feathers for me.” Crowley struggled with his tekkamaki. “Besides, if you’re going to do them again I want somewhere soft to lie next time. It’s purely selfish.”

“You can eat that with your fingers if you’re having trouble,” Aziraphale said. He was smiling. “Are you _sure_?”

“_Yes_. I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t. Surely you should know that about me by now,” Crowley said. He popped the tekkamaki into his mouth. “But you like it?”

“I think it’s exquisite. I won’t be able to have a stand of books in the middle, now; I will only want people to admire my carpet.”

Crowley snorted, and looked innocently at Aziraphale over the rim of his cup.

“You are _terrible_. … I do have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“When you were doing the disciplinary interrogations. In Heaven. Were angels allowed a representative with them? An advocate?”

Crowley shook his head. He looked a little ashamed. “No, it was just them. Then either me or my own, occasionally Gabriel or another higher ranking AC angel.”

“Hmm.” Normally the persimmon leaf kakinoha-zushi would have held all of his attention, but today his mind was turning things over continuously. Over and over… Crowley’s mind was like lightning. It could change direction in an instant, flashing bright and dangerous. Aziraphale’s was like the sea. Vast. Patient. Inexorable. “Interesting. Thank you.”

“Why?”

“Just… I was wondering whether it was standard practice, or whether I was a special case. I’ve been mulling a few things over.”

“What things?”

“Well, just… organisation, I suppose. It’s not a lack of trust, I just haven’t put my thoughts into words, yet. Not just whether to do something, but how… I have to do a lot of reading first. But I might ask you for some help, when I’m ready.”

“Of course,” Crowley said. He filled Aziraphale’s cup with more of the sweet sake. “Anything I can do.”

“Thank you. Oh, I almost forgot. I realised I don’t have a way to contact you.”

“Ah, well,” Crowley said, and rifled through his pockets. “Here. New mobile phone. My number’s already programmed in there, so you can call whenever.”

“Oh, thank you! Can it find the music, like yours?”

“Yes, you click this button here, and you can type what you want to see or listen to in this one…”

Neither of them knew what data was, and it didn’t matter a bit.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umpteenth verse, same as the first! I am still beaten down by deadlines, and now have an additional head-cold (punishment from God for this fic, most likely), but I read and delight in all of your comments, and will reply as soon as I can! <3

It was nearly a month before they met up again. Crowley had tried phoning every couple of days. Most times it rang off, and Crowley worried that Aziraphale was spending all his time sleeping still. Once, however, he had obviously been out and about – he tried to answer it, and accidentally hung up, but that was all right. He had heard the chatter of people and “Oh, Lord, how do I-“, and Crowley knew what he needed from that. And the most recent time he had both answered it successfully, _and_ Crowley had heard male voices and drilling in the background. He hoped Aziraphale had finally got builders round to the shop, if only to stop it from falling in on him while he slept.

Crowley, meanwhile, was easing himself into being a demon. Following Hastur had given him a few tips. He didn’t weaken iron grates or set anything on fire, but he _did_ let down tires and set off car alarms.

He discovered a very fun game of waltzing into the bank headquarters in Canary Wharf in a grey suit; if he sat in a chair in a lobby or corridor people assumed he was there for a meeting or a job interview. Then it was just a matter of putting a single dog poo in an office. Men screamed in fury. Coffee mugs were thrown. Clients were horrified. Security was sent looking for a dog that did not exist. And then, an hour later, another dog poo, in a different office. This time on a desk. More tantrums, extra security, and then, just after lunch, some human diarrhoea all over a £300 keyboard or an important contract. People were being fired left, right, and centre. One man sat in the lobby of Lloyds HQ and sobbed. After HSBC Crowley started to bring a broadsheet newspaper so that no one would notice he was literally crying with laughter.

The best was when he’d bought a small army of inexpensive drones and took them out to Heathrow for an extremely entertaining weekend. He described the fall-out at great length in his first report, complete with newspaper clippings and print-outs from Twitter.

It took him a good three weeks to realise that Hell had wanted him on Earth for the same reason that Heaven had wanted Aziraphale there. Angels and demons were, by nature, extremely nervous of change. _Particularly_ of any change to the hierarchy. No one knew where Crowley fitted into Hell’s hierarchy, as a newly Fallen angel, and as one who had Fallen individually, and who had received a private audience with Lucifer for it. He was awkward. He was dangerous. He doubted that he would have been able to parse why they had been so willing for him to do his probation on Earth if he hadn’t been aware of how all the angels in Heaven felt about Aziraphale.

The games with the banks and Heathrow, and worrying about Aziraphale, helped to distract him from the cold certainty in his chest. The certainty of what he was, and would be, forever. The loneliness and hopelessness of damnation.

He didn’t regret Falling. He still thought that the hypocrisy of Heaven was worse. He could more easily bear the chill than the nausea.

He didn’t regret it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t _hurt._

So, in all, he was relieved when he and Aziraphale finally managed to talk, and arrange dinner at Hide in Mayfair, near Crowley’s new flat. He had originally suggested a place called CUT on Park Lane, but this was apparently owned by the Dorchester Collection, which was apparently owned by the Sultan of Brunei, which according to Aziraphale made it ethically unacceptable. Crowley offered to drive (in the loosest and most charitable sense of the verb). He’d bought a car, an Aston Martin Vantage, and had very much enjoyed finding out what it could do. But he wasn’t _fussed_ about it. He wasn’t _in love_ with it.

He got up out of it outside the bookshop with a movement more suited to a yoga studio, and knocked on the door. He waited for a minute before Aziraphale opened it. “Hello, hello, sorry, I’ve been running late all afternoon-“

“It’s fine,” Crowley said as he stepped in. There were sheets down, and the oculus was boarded up. He was glad to see it. Then Aziraphale moved back into the light, and Crowley looked down in shock at Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“It’s too much,” Aziraphale said instantly, and took off his jacket to begin removing it. “I knew it, I _knew_ it was-“

“No, no,” Crowley said quickly. “It’s lovely.”

And it was – raw periwinkle silk, embroidered with deep green leaves twining around the buttons, and the odd white flower peeking out. More colour than he was used to seeing on Aziraphale, but far from garish. “It suits you perfectly. It looks like _Stephanotis_.”

“Yes, that’s rather what I thought… It’s very colourful. I’m not sure if it suits…”

“No, it’s perfect. Matches your eyes, and the white your hair. I insist you wear it.”

“It was a touch more than I would normally spend – but clothes really can last a century if you take decent care of them, and ‘fast fashion’ is unethical from both an anthropophilic and environmental point of view…”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Aziraphale,” Crowley said gently. “I am a mere demon, after all. I just think it’s very pretty.”

Aziraphale smiled at him gratefully. “It _is_ rather pretty, isn’t it? What do you think about the jacket?”

“I am obliged to loathe _tweed_, _honestly_, but the green and grey is far less offensive than most of the other options. What on the elbows?”

“Brown velvet,” Aziraphale said, shrugging into the jacket again. “It’s nice and warm.”

“Well, that’s what you need in _June_.”

“_You_ have never spent June in England, my dear; you need something that can go from ten to thirty-five in an afternoon.”

“Sounds like moving between the eighth and ninth circles, to be honest. Joking!”

“_Hilarious_.”

Crowley grinned. “So you went to the tailor’s?”

“Yes, I bought a few other bits and bobs, but for jacket and trousers I really thought I’d rather have them fitted. I don’t know what to do, though – I went to the same place I went to last time, measurements all written down. It’s my last tailor’s apprentice, heir, whatever, and when he’d measured me up he _congratulated me on the weight loss_.”

Crowley removed his sunglasses with appropriate dramatic effect. “Bloody cheek!”

“Well, rather! I told him that I hadn’t eaten for a month and he said he knew, it felt like that. I said no, I literally had not eaten a thing, and he told me _not to be ashamed, it can_ _happen to men these days too. _Absolutely… Ugh, I was so annoyed! I very nearly replied that if he was aware that _it could happen to men these days too _then perhaps he shouldn’t be making unsolicited comments about people’s figures.”

“Do you want him to cut his own fingers off?” Crowley said, waggling his.

“What- No! Crowley!”

“It’s practically_ encouraged_ for me, you know. Then you could joke that he’s lost a little excess weight since you last saw him too.”

“You are utterly terrible,” Aziraphale said with a sniff, but he looked a little more cheerful. “I may have weakened his seat seam before I left.”

"In that case you’re going to _love_ hearing what I’ve been up to,” said Crowley, and held the door open. “I have to tell you in the car though, or you might be put off your dinner.”

*

Aziraphale had done his absolute best, but by the time Crowley had parked he was red-faced, sobbing with laughter into his handkerchief. “I can’t _believe-_ And he thought-?”

“The fact that he thought it was _not outside the realm of possibility_ that someone would hate him so much as to just drop his trousers and-“ Crowley said, through his giggles.

“But all those people without jobs-“ Aziraphale said in a valiant attempt, but the violent wobble of his chin betrayed him. “I mean, well, _bankers_, but still!”

“I knew you’d like that touch,” Crowley said. “Ah, Lucifer. Right, food.”

The restaurant was much more to Crowley’s taste than the Ritz had been: clean lines, simple, elegant. Aziraphale liked the pale wooden carvings which decorated the walls. They both liked the fresh flowers. Crowley ordered wine and the tasting menu, and asked “How’s the bookshop?” when the wine arrived.

“Oh, well. They said it’ll be at least a year before it’s all sorted again as it was. It’s a listed building so there’s all sorts of legal things they have to go through. I feel like I’ll spend half the year with _lawyers_. I had a meeting with Jose’s when you rang a week or so ago. He’s obviously mentally incapable, and I was happy to write a letter about the whole thing… Well. Not _happy_, if I’m entirely honest, but it was the right thing to do.”

“Still,” Crowley said sympathetically.

“Still, it’s a good thing you stopped me from killing him that night,” Aziraphale said, and smiled at the suddenly pale-faced waiter who had bought the crudités and chamomile dressing.

They both agreed that the olive-stuffed tomato wasn’t anything special, but enjoyed the cured salmon in crème cru. Next came a brown pottery dish with hay in it; nestled in the centre was a whole, perfect eggshell with the top cut away, containing a golden blend of eggy _something_. Aziraphale cooed and dipped a tiny spoon into the shell, but Crowley was seized with a sudden, completely irresistible urge; he grabbed the egg and tossed the whole thing down the back of his throat.

The waiter and the diners on the next table watched in horror. There was the audible sound of cracking eggshell in Crowley’s throat, and he looked at Aziraphale in a panic. He swallowed painfully. “I have no idea why I just did that.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were crinkled with fond, amused delight. “Well, my dear, you are a _snake_,” he said, as though that explained everything. “You see an egg in a nest... Animal instinct. Though if you try it with mine you’ll have four small holes in the back of your hand. Here, taste a little of mine from the spoon, I don’t think it even touched your tongue.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows at the couple on the next table, who immediately returned to their own meals. “I need to buy you some David Attenborough documentaries. Educate you about your fellows.”

Crowley was too busy beaming at the realisation that Aziraphale was _making a joke_ about his new demonic status, instead of being too wrapped up in fear or guilt. “Oh, shut up,” he said, with an expression that said _go on, you bastard_.

“You see, Crowley, when you grow into a demon, your body might go through certain _changes_-“

“I will throw this bread at you. No, I will throw this _wine_ at you.”

“No, Crowley, my waistcoat! That’s a clear escalation of hostilities, I’m shocked at you,” Aziraphale said, eyes shining, as he returned to his little egg.

There was something in Aziraphale’s mind, Crowley thought as they lingered over the (excellent) lobster; something he wasn’t quite ready to say. Crowley was patient; he sensed that Aziraphale wanted his opinion on something, but thought that he _shouldn’t_ want it. Classic Aziraphale, really. So instead he made sure they had plenty of wine, and told Aziraphale all about Heathrow, and let him finish the rest of his chocolate lava cake when it was too rich for him to take more than a couple of spoonfuls.

Crowley paid the bill, they finished the wine. Crowley sobered himself up enough to at least half-drive them back to the bookshop.

“That was really lovely, Crowley, thank you,” said Aziraphale. He picked some non-existent fluff off his cuff. “Um. The shop’s an absolute state, obviously, but the back room’s relatively habitable, if you wanted a nightcap?”

Crowley grinned in his victory. “Sure, why not? Tomorrow I’m only back in Canary Wharf.”

Aziraphale still looked nervous. “I don’t know much about Heaven’s surveillance system, let alone Hell’s, but… I’m worried that this is putting you in danger.”

Crowley stood at the door until Aziraphale moved aside. “I think it’s all right. If they know what to look for… Well, you probably won’t like this. I wrote on my report that you still think I’m redeemable, and I’m taking advantage of the situation to get you to tell me everything you’re doing for Heaven. Which I then go out and thwart.”

Aziraphale blushed, and looked even more nervous, as Crowley knew he would. He covered it by going to the kitchenette for whatever they’d be drinking. “I haven’t been doing much for Heaven the last couple of months…”

“Of course you have. According to my first report you went to the local pro-environment protests, which I started a bit of rioting at, and you also tirelessly lobbied for more before-school breakfast clubs, which I scuppered by reminding the same politicians how expensive that would be.”

Aziraphale brought out a bottle of Cointreau, like they’d had at Christmas. “This is all I have, I’m afraid, no room for wine yet. That’s extraordinary.”

Crowley smiled at him. “It’s easy. I read the Guardian to see what you’d be up to, and then the Daily Mail to see what I should be doing. Between that and Heathrow my side seem very happy. I was given gold pentagrams for effort _and_ for zeal. They think I’m just sucking up, but luckily that’s a category too. Got a silver star for sycophancy.”

“Well, as I’m such a gullible fool as to be happily telling you everything I’m up to,” Aziraphale said pointedly, which made Crowley grin, and poured out measures for them both. “But if there is any trouble you must stop. I mean it. I don’t you in any more danger than...”

“Than I am already? I know, Aziraphale. Don’t worry. Always looking after me.”

“Well, I tried, and look how that turned out.” Aziraphale drank a mouthful. “Ah. Better after a meal than whisky, sometimes.”

“Especially that one. That chocolate, urgh.”

“That chocolate was _divine_; no wonder you didn’t like it.”

Crowley spluttered into his Cointreau and got orange-flavoured bitterness up his nose. “Just a bit too much for me!”

“Precisely.” Aziraphale’s smile faded. “… do you miss Her?”

Crowley wiped his nose before he decided on painful honesty. “Yes. All the time. I can feel the absence of Her, just here.” He patted his breastbone. “It’s a strange thing. I still think it was the right choice. I think I’d do it again. At least, I wouldn’t go back to Heaven. But it still hurts.”

“Almost as though you have emotions as well as reason,” Aziraphale said gently. “Very inconvenient.”

“Very. Another thing I’m angry at Her for. Why give us all these feelings and thoughts if we’re not allowed to act on them? I don’t know. The whole thing… The more I think about any of it, the more fucked-up I think it all is. Easier to just magic dog shit onto someone’s conference table and watch the chaos.”

“Or to sleep,” Aziraphale agreed. “I’ve been thinking too… The night of the fire. Jose confessed to the police – as much as he was able to. He told them exactly what he did. It’s as clear-cut a case as could be. Guilty, but realistically he’s not really capable of understanding the full consequences. And yet the law of the land means that he still must be represented and looked after by a lawyer, whom he can’t afford, and which the country thus provides. Completely guilty, and will say so to anyone who asks him. But he absolutely_ must_ have help and be looked after every step of the way. It’s his solicitor who got in contact with me and has been helping me with my letter and my victim statement.”

“While Heaven never had anyone there to help you.”

“No one that they were aware of,” Aziraphale said, with a smile that set Crowley’s heart aflame. “But yes. There are miscarriages of justice every day. Appalling things happen in courts all over the world _every day. _But in this country, what happened in Heaven… there would be an outcry. Even if the standards aren’t always met, humans in general _have standards_. They have an ideal of justice.”

He frowned, and leant forward, and took another sip of Cointreau. “I mean, you’ll know more than me. But I always rationalised it. I always thought, we don’t need lawyers or evidence or witnesses or anything. Because we have God. We have the Perfect, Omniscient Judge. And yet here’s Jose, as guilty as can be, and he's still given all those things. There’s still a system in place to protect _him_, or that tries to, in a human, fallible way. And yet in Heaven God’s barely talking, and when She does it’s just… merciless. No advocate – none that She listened to. I prayed and prayed while that _hole_ was stretching open, but She didn’t listen. Jose is self-confessedly guilty, and yet this fallible, human system still has people who advocate for him, and consideration of the _circumstances_. It has mercy.”

“That’s why I don’t regret it,” Crowley said. “I thought that if I told Her to fuck off, and if She listened to that rather than to everything Gabriel threatened you with… Then I’d mean it. That’s why I said it had already been decided.”

“I don’t know what to do.” Aziraphale’s voice was very soft, with a crack running right down the middle. “I know I have to do _something_, but I don’t know how… It can’t come from above. We know it won’t.”

He gestured with his glass between himself and Crowley, and Crowley was seized with an urge to take him into his arms. To hold him like he had in Heaven. To say _yes, yes, we, you and me, us._ But he didn’t.

“So I’ve been researching. How have humans at the bottom made demands, and when has it worked? Revolutions sometimes do, but given what happened to Lucifer I doubt there’d be any support for one now. Semiaza and the rest tried conspiracy. Same result. It has to be… Legitimate. I’ve been learning about unions – going through my old notes, my old reports. I remember Heaven was suspicious at the beginning, there was so much bloodshed, but I argued we should be supportive. Solidarity, agency, equality… I’m just worried that what I touch will be poisoned. That I’m so unpopular there that any other angels would be put off from even talking about it if it came from me.”

“Only because they’re idiots,” Crowley said, and couldn’t resist taking Aziraphale’s hand then. He wished he could deny it, but he remembered his own early impressions far too clearly. “Only because they don’t know any better.”

“Thank you for not lying, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and squeezed his hand in return with a tired smile. He let go to pour them some more of the spirit. “I thought, in the absence of any immediate demands, the only thing I could do is start a conversation, as they say on those talk shows you used to watch. I wrote to Keteriel and a few of the other Principalities, and _b c c’d_ a handful of angels and archangels as well. I said, I know I’ve been out of Heaven for a while, so I’m afraid I don’t know who my union representative is. I assume it’s someone in our choir – or is it done by sphere? And of course I received a message straight back from Keteriel saying:…”

“_’What’s a union representative?’_”

“Exactly. So I explained, and apologised profusely. I said that I had made the assumption because it was such an excellent idea, created so that violent revolutions could be avoided, that I was sure it must have been something they found out about from Heaven.”

Crowley was smirking. “Did she fall for it?”

“Not sure yet. She replied that as the entire system of Heaven is completely perfect there is no need for this human idea of a union. I replied that of course, she was quite right. We’d already had our violent revolution, after all, and with everything instituted since then there was absolutely no chance of another. Kralel, I’m sure, was an outlier.” Crowley ironically raised his glass, and Aziraphale chinked it. “Anyway, thank you again for clearing it up for me. I’d been in the wrong place and wrong time, I knew, but I felt for the poor fellow, and I’d been fretting about it, you know me, thank you so much and we must catch up if ever you’re down on Earth.”

“They’ll start keeping an eye on the angels.” Crowley framed his face with his hand. “They’ll start to wonder if there’s another _me_ among them.”

“I imagine so. And I imagine the angels will become quite resentful of it. And they will talk, and the talking will make the other ranks even more nervous. And now they know about unions some of them might decide that that’s a better pressure valve than the other options. It could be a pearl, Crowley. A tiny piece of grit gets into the oyster and makes it uncomfortable, and then it’s coated with layer upon layer of nacre until a pearl is formed.” He smiled shyly. “You and I are the piece of grit, and Heaven is our oyster. I don't know if it will work. I don't know if it even _could. ___But if God's not going to answer any prayers then I'm obliged to try.”


	20. Chapter 20

August brought two things. The first was what Aziraphale had decided to celebrate as Crowley’s birthday, on the 12th of August: the one-year anniversary of Kralel’s arrival on Earth. They went to Soho Square, and then back to the Chinese restaurant they had visited a year ago. They finished the night at the Admiral Duncan. Crowley and Doc gave each other wary, respectful nods, but Doc acted just as he always had with Aziraphale, and Crowley approved. On Saturday, Aziraphale gave him his present: tickets to a vintage car show out in Buckinghamshire. It was a blazing hot day, and Aziraphale was content to sit at a picnic bench with a Mr Whippy as Crowley ran about to grill owners and examine every inch of the cars on display.

It was there that he fell in love. The 1926 Bentley here was not for sale, not for any price, and Crowley respected the car too much to use any demonic wiles to part her from her owner. No. He would win his own lady honourably, he swore. At least he now knew what she looked like.

The second thing that August brought was a telephone call on the 18th. In twenty-four hours, Crowley was to drive to a graveyard in the Chiltern Hills. He would receive further instructions when he arrived. To make a good impression, he decided to push forward the mobile network sabotage he’d been working on, and he felt relatively confident as he drove the Aston Martin past High Wycombe.

Waiting for him, lurking in the darkness of a country churchyard, were Hastur and Ligur.

Their faces twisted into grotesque smiles as he approached, and in Crowley’s mind the worst thing was that Aziraphale would never know what happened to him.

“Evening, _Crawly_,” said Hastur, showing his rotting teeth in a grin.

“It’s Crowley,” said Crowley. “Two on one? I’m flattered.”

Ligur laughed. He had a very good evil laugh. It echoed. It had layers to it. “No, no, Crawly. Don’t worry. We’re not going to hurt a hair on your pretty little head.”

“You’re new, so you don’t really know how these things work,” Hastur said. “And His Infernal Lordship likes you because you’re new. ‘Cause he likes novelty. So I said, Lord, why don’t we give Crawly the chance to really prove his loyalty? To do something really, really _special_ for Hell?”

Crowley didn’t like the sound of that. “Urk.”

“Oh, yes,” said Hastur, grinning even more widely. “_Exactly_.” He held out a picnic basket. “And if anything-“

“_Anything_.”

“- goes wrong, His Infernal Lordship will know _exactly_ who’s to blame.” Hastur looked delighted.

Crowley took the picnic basket as though it was one of the bombs Hastur used to plant. It was barely even a metaphor.

“You should be excited, Crawly,” said Ligur. “We’re going to be able to kill all your old mateys once and for all!”

“Oh, not _all_ of them,” said Hastur. “I’m preparing the darkest, deepest pit in Hell for one special one.”

*

Some things were the same.

Crowley delivered the Antichrist to the Chattering Order of Satanic Nuns. The Order promptly lost him. The supposed son of the American ambassador was named Warlock; until the age of six he was watched over by Nanny Astoreth and Brother Francis, and then tutors named Mr. Harrison and Mr. Cortese. Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled.

Aziraphale “entertained” at Warlock’s eleventh birthday party. The hellhound never arrived. Crowley drove them to Tadfield Manor, where Aziraphale’s periwinkle waistcoat was quite ruined by a red paintball. Crowley was delighted to assist, but they found no clues as to the location of the missing Antichrist. A witch named Anathema Device carelessly hit the poor Aston Martin with her bicycle. Aziraphale healed her (and her bike) and she left behind her a book of prophecies which Aziraphale discovered.

The Horsemen still rode.

Some things were different.

Crowley didn’t even notice that Anathema Device had broken one of his headlights for a good forty-eight hours.

It still took Aziraphale a long time, a lot of notepaper, several complex brain-breaking equations, and an extremely anxious telephone call to locate where the Antichrist was. But this Aziraphale did not try to inform his superiors. He had received a brief note from Gabriel, the first since Kralel’s Fall, telling him that under no circumstances was he to interfere with Hell’s work to bring about the Apocalypse. Heaven wanted the War just as much as Hell did, and Gabriel was very much looking forward to getting his hands on his erstwhile junior officer when Heaven won.

Aziraphale kept this note propped against the wheel of his statuette of Plato’s Chariot. He didn’t need the reminder, but sometimes his frayed nerves needed steeling. This time, he didn’t attempt to contact the Archangels, but went aimed straight for God Herself from the get-go.

He still got the Metatron. He was still told that Heaven wanted this War. He was still told that the Earth _would_ be destroyed.

In this universe, the Witchfinder Army was pay-rolled entirely by Hastur, who had had Aziraphale burnt as a witch once, and then also managed to get him hanged a couple of centuries later, and was gunning for a hat-trick.

Aziraphale knew this, and about what the Witchfinder Army had been reduced to; Crowley had phoned him in tears of laughter when Sergeant Shadwell had tried to threaten and cajole money out of _him_ as Hastur’s replacement.

So when Shadwell broke into the bookshop with the aim of threatening the angel whom Hastur had told him to keep an eye on in the middle of Aziraphale’s increasingly frustrated argument with the Metatron, and began shouting and pointing his black-nailed finger, screaming that Aziraphale was an evil bastard and southern pansy (who was yet seducing women to do his wicked bidding), he was not greatly perturbed. Annoyed, yes, but not distressed.

Shadwell shuffled backwards and grabbed the shop door, slamming it hard so that the bell jangled. “Bell!” He grabbed _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ and thumped it down heavily on the table. “Book!” He fumbled in his pocket and produced his trusty Ronson. “Practically candle!” he shouted.

Aziraphale had walked, slowly and calmly, around the circle, putting it between them. “That’s for excommunications,” he said silkily. “Not exorcisms. _Really_. What has the once-illustrious Witchfinder Army come to, if its officers can’t even tell the difference between excommunication and exorcism? I suppose after the first two you just gave up with all those nasty tricky letters, hmm?”

“I dun wanna use violence, nancyboy, but I will if I haf’te!” Shadwwell said, visibly gearing up to charge.

Aziraphale smiled, showing his teeth. “Come and have a go,” he said sweetly, “if you think you’re hard enough.”

He vanished the resulting mess with a wave of his hand, and was cheered up just a little by the thought of the conversation which Shadwell must be having with the Metratron right now. Or that the Metatron would be having with Sergeant Shadwell. Then he phoned Crowley.

*

Crowley answered his mobile with one hand. “Sorry, can’t talk, have an old friend here,” he said, and didn’t hang up.

Hastur snarled a half-grin. Between them, the puddle which had once been Ligur steamed. The holy water which Aziraphale had gifted Crowley once he’d bought his own flat had come in handy after all. Crowley had made sure the desk was between them as well, and he stood on the flat’s balcony. Every second might count. “That Aziraphale?” Hastur said. “As soon as I’ve brought you down I’m going to come right back up again, you know. The angel’s _mine_. And I will make you listen to him beg.”

Crowley held out the plant mister. Every second might count. In terms of pure power he was hopelessly outgunned by a Duke of Hell, but he knew from the David Attenborough DVDs that Aziraphale had given him for Christmas a few years ago that if it came to speed, the odds were on the snake rather than the toad. “I don’t think it’s going to come to that.”

With a gesture from Hastur, it dissolved like rice paper. “I think it will.”

_Shit_. Hastur was advancing on him, and Crowley didn’t know what to do.

Then he remembered what Aziraphale had told him once: that when Hastur had tried to pluck out each one of his bloodfeathers, Aziraphale had exploded his own heart to get away.

“Wait!” Crowley said, and held out his hand. For some ridiculous reason – his insane desire to prolong Crowley’s moment of hopeless fear, probably – Hastur obeyed. And Crowley threw himself backwards off the fifth-floor balcony.

“No!” Hastur screamed, and shoved the desk aside; marble cracked, and wood splintered, and he looked down to see the screaming pedestrians, the pool of blood, Crowley’s twisted, broken body. He looked around to see which human Crowley was trying to possess, until the sound of a throat clearing behind him made him turn around.

From Crowley’s dropped mobile phone, Aziraphale rose in a stream of white and blue and gold sparks. He held a battered book that assembled itself from the floating lights as he did. “Duke Hastur,” he said, as though surprised to find him there.

“Here to rescue your friend?” Hastur spat. He conjured a wicked-looking longsword into his hand. “Too late.”

“For his corporation, yes,” Aziraphale agreed mildly. He didn’t conjure his own sword. Instead, electricity charged the air, and light shone, brighter and brighter. His twelve year-old coat and shirt and waistcoat were all shredded as he brought out his wings.

But the power in the air wasn’t discharged by the manifestation of his wings; it only grew thicker.

Hastur realised too late what was happening; he lunged, and Aziraphale grabbed the sword blade with a glowing hand. Bright red joined the coloured shafts of light beaming out of him.

“You can’t!” Hastur said, trying and failing to pull his sword back. He reached out to summon hellfire, but it would never arrive in time. They both knew it.

“I never did because I didn’t want to start the War. But the War’s already here. Remembrance fallen from heaven, and madness risen from hell…” Aziraphale quoted wondrously. “I’ve wanted to do this for _such _a long time.”

*

It is a standard human reaction, when witnessing a sudden and violent death, to be far more open than one might usually be to any kind of supernatural influence. Crowley had had plenty of receptive bodies to pick from, and he watched through the eyes of the man he had possessed as the light of a sun beamed out of his flat.

Then as the flat exploded.

Out of the debris Aziraphale fluttered, coming to earth like a dove coming home to roost. He eyes were closed in bliss, and his face was like a star.

He opened his eyes, and spotted Crowley immediately. “There you are, my dear.”

“Me?” said the human, pointing to himself, and Aziraphale gave him a smile which instantly reduced him to tears.

“No, no, my dear fellow,” he said. “My friend. Crowley, you’ll have to come in with me. There’s not much time.”

“I don’t know if- won’t we explode?” Crowley said, and the human clapped his hands over his mouth.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale said. “But I’m going to have to fly there. It’s happening any minute now. We need to risk it.” Then he blinked, and his shoulders slumped. He looked at Crowley’s mangled corpse, and then back at the possessed man. “What am I saying? It’s all right. I’ll do it. You should stay here, it might be safer.”

“How?” said Crowley. “The whole world’s going to end. I doubt London’s going to escape a nuclear missile strike!”

“But _you_ might survive that,” Aziraphale said, as the humans around them began to scream again. He and Crowley ignored them, and Crowley kept his unwilling host rooted to the spot.

“Why did you invite me along, then?” he asked. He knew the answer already.

Aziraphale looked so tired, suddenly. Crowley hadn’t seen him look as tired since that awful not-night in Heaven. “I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “I think I’m… just scared. I’m scared. And I thought if I was going to do this, I wanted to do it with you.”

“Good enough a reason for me,” said Crowley.

“No, Crowley. It’s selfish. I’m sorry.”

“Bullshit,” said Crowley, and flowed into Aziraphale’s body.

*

It was like staring at the sun. It was like seeing the sublime vastness of space. And it was as small and soft as sitting on a carpet in front of a fire, pouring plum wine. There was the great, unbearable power of Aziraphale, but there was also the great, unbearable tenderness with which he found Crowley’s spirit and held his core safely underneath his own heart. He was also generous, and trusting, and let Crowley see through his eyes, and feel his skin as he soared up into the piercing chill of the sky.

Crowley found that he barely cared if the world ended. Nothing ever after could compare to this. He felt Aziraphale laugh at him, touched beyond words even in the midst of their terror.

Beneath them, the M25 was locked full with traffic at a standstill, but it wasn’t on fire.

Crowley could feel the wind streaming through Aziraphale’s hair, and the snap of his ragged clothes against his skin. He could feel Aziraphale’s exhaustion, and his fear, and the clarity of his mind. It was like the sun through a magnifying glass, that clarity of purpose. He knew that it was new to Aziraphale, and he assured him without words that it was the same thing he had felt when he had Fallen. Whatever the consequences, it had to be _done_.

He felt how reassured Aziraphale was by that, and basked in his relief like a snake in the sun.

He was able to explore Aziraphale at length while Aziraphale concentrated on flying. He didn’t probe at all, just watched, and felt whatever fleeting thoughts or feelings whipped through Aziraphale’s essence as his mind calculated and navigated. He felt anxiety, that was no surprise, but Crowley marvelled that even now, with the world ending, Aziraphale still felt bursts of gratitude to God, and was amazed that so much of that gratitude was for _him_. For the friendship of Kralel and Crowley, and that She had placed him in a position where Aziraphale could come to know him. He saw that to Aziraphale, the pain of his betrayal, and of Heaven’s betrayal, had been worth the friendship that had been engendered, and Crowley was humbled in the face of it.

Fuck the Apocalypse, he said to himself. If he had anything to do with it, they were going to _live_.

Beneath them grey turned to green. Within twenty minutes Aziraphale was checking his memory, circling to try to find an empty expanse which matched an airfield. There was nothing happening in Kidlington Airport (nothing metaphysical, just plenty of human panic), and Aziraphale doubled back when he saw the dreaming spires of Oxford.

_Let me_, Crowley said urgently. _I might not be able to feel the boy himself, but there’ll be all sorts of infernal energy now. Let me._

Aziraphale let him. He focused on keeping his wings beating, and let Crowley direct the body north-east. It was awkward, and they lost speed and altitude while Crowley took over the metaphorical directional controls. _The book, don’t you dare drop that book, Crowley!_

_Priorities!_

Then they were soaring again, and Crowley flew to the Apocalypse like a moth to a flame.

Aziraphale made excited noises when he spotted the airfield, and Crowley pulled up. They performed a manoeuvre probably most analogous to switching drivers while going a hundred miles per hour on the motorway, but angels tended to have the advantage of no other cars being on the road at any given time.

Any given time did not, however, include Armageddon.

Crowley was back in the metaphorical passenger seat, and Aziraphale was circling, looking for a place to land. Crowley knew that Aziraphale intended to kill the Antichrist, and was dreading it. His soft heart was wrung raw by the thought of it. But there was ruthlessness there too, and steel, and he could see the thousands upon thousands of images that fluttered through Aziraphale’s mind. A thousand thousand human faces, and Crowley felt Aziraphale’s recognition of each one.

Then something heavy slammed into Aziraphale’s back.

Crowley felt furious hands in Aziraphale’s hair, and even worse, clawing, raking hands in his wings. Aziraphale screamed, and Crowley saw them in a flash as Aziraphale tried to throw them off. Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon; the latter was on Aziraphale’s left wing, tearing _down_.

Michael vanished from Aziraphale’s peripheral vision, and then Crowley felt the crunching _snap-snap-snap_ of Aziraphale’s right wing being violently broken. They screamed together at it.

Crowley had never known pain like it. He was blinded with Aziraphale, unthinking – there was only pure, animal panic, the screeching, uncomprehending terror at how _wrong_ it felt.

He had known pain like it, only once. It felt like Falling.

He’d never know how Aziraphale managed to think through that pain. Practice, he’d suppose later. Millennia of thinking through the pain. Crowley felt him remember a fight with Hastur, the sudden weight of another body pulling him out of flight, and Aziraphale clung to Michael’s foot. She kicked him in the face with her other, but he held fast; Crowley dropped the precious book, and fisted Aziraphale’s hand in Uriel’s jacket.

They spun down in an ungraceful, thrashing heap, over and over, a tangle of limbs and wings. But with so many pairs of angelic wings buffeting each other their descent was slowed. A hundred metres above the ground, Sandalphon brought some kind of club down on Aziraphale’s arms; Michael broke free, and Uriel tore themselves away.

Aziraphale and Crowley were in free fall for only a second. Just long enough for Crowley to feel Aziraphale think _I’m sorry_ to him, before there was the wet, brutal sound of an angel hitting tarmac.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me a few chapters ago: No, there'll be a little tying up of loose ends, but I really can't imagine them even hugging before the end of this fic. That's a story for another day. Maybe they'll shake hands by the end.
> 
> Me now: *writes this chapter*
> 
> The moral: trust nobody not even yourself
> 
> After the cliffhanger I thought I would focus on getting the next chapter done, and now I have to head back to work! I will reply to all your lovely comments as soon as I can - thank you so much!

Aziraphale’s head wouldn’t move. It took a literally superhuman effort just for Crowley to open his eyes. Aziraphale wasn’t dead, _miraculously_; the fight had slowed their fall enough that it was just a few dozen broken bones rather than an instant discorporation. Aziraphale was deep inside himself, frantically healing whatever he could, attempting to triage through the agony.

Meanwhile Crowley held Aziraphale’s chest up and head together so that the angel could work. But he was able to look up at the small, fair-haired boy that was staring down at him.

“I bet he’s broken his leg,” a girl to one side said. “Like when I fell out of the Screaming Tree and I had that cast for the whole of half term.”

“He’s broken his _wings_, Pepper, look,” said another boy, who blinked owlishly through grubby glasses at them.

“That’s probably like breaking your leg, for an angel. _Both_ legs, even.”

“Maybe he’s broken his _neck_.” A third boy reached out to prod Aziraphale, and the first boy slapped his hand away.

“He’s broken lots. And not even just from falling, like with Pepper! It was three on one!” He squinted at them. “Oh. Well, two. _And_ he’s smaller than them!”

This wasn’t true, except it _was_. This was _him_, Crowley realised all at once. The boy had seen him in Aziraphale’s body, and had seen right through to the metaphysical dimension in which the fight looked less like four winged humans trying to knock the shit out of each other, and more like an eagle, a hawk and a vulture trying to rip a pigeon to pieces between them.

The boy wrinkled his nose in disdain. “That’s the kind of thing the _Johnsonites_ would do.”

Crowley had no idea who the Johnsonites were. He could feel Aziraphale’s battered mind trying to remember as he furiously tried to knit his skull back together. _Gnostics? Like the Ophites… No, Sethites. Can’t have been the Collyridians, they were the ones with the cakes… God, it hurts, Crowley – _

“Anyway,” said the Antichrist. “Shouldn’t be two of you in there.”

And suddenly there wasn’t. Crowley was in his body again, the one he’d left behind on a Mayfair pavement resembling an explosion in a jam factory. He looked around in rage at the humans: four small children, and a young man and woman in their twenties. A hundred metres away, soldiers in fatigues, with very big guns. All asleep on the ground.

“Put me back!” he said urgently, feeling the sudden separation from Aziraphale like a mortal wound, and knelt down beside the angel. Oh, _fuck_, he looked even worse from the outside. “He’s not strong enough, I can help him!” He was covered in blood, but his wings – God, Satan and all the rest of them – one was hanging off, and the other was twisted in a hideous mockery of a wing, pierced by broken bones and a riot of bent feathers-

And suddenly there were both fine. The blood was gone. Aziraphale’s bones were all in their correct places.

Aziraphale winced, and pushed himself up unsteadily. He looked very seriously at the Antichrist. “Thank you.”

“S’all right. It wasn’t okay, all of them on you,” said the boy.

“They were trying to save you,” Aziraphale said. “I was coming to kill you.”

“Yeah, I know,” said the Antichrist, just as seriously. “But you won’t now. I know it sounds weird. But I know you were only doing it ‘cause you want to save everyone else. That’s what we want to do too. And those angels wanted to save me so that I could kill everyone for them. At least you were going to do something you didn’t want to do instead of getting someone else to do it.”

“Like when Greasy Johnson told Tom Blakely he’d beat him up if he didn’t steal Clare Woodhall’s marbles from her desk at lunchtime,” the girl called Pepper said.

“Yeah, exactly. But you guys think _I’m_ Greasy Johnson, and so if you put me in a cast everyone’ll get to keep their own marbles. Or something. And you wouldn’t like doing it. It’d be like Wensleydale trying to beat someone up.”

“I could beat someone up if I wanted to!” said the boy with the glasses.

“I mean, you couldn’t, mate,” said the third boy. “It’s all right.”

“Point is you wouldn’t even _want_ to, would you?” said the Antichrist. “_You_ said that you read that violence is the last resort of the incompetent.”

“No one has ever accused me of being competent,” said Aziraphale, with an edge of hysteria in his voice. “But someone here is… Where are the Horsemen?”

“You mean the bikers?” said the Antichrist. “It’s all right. You don’t need to worry about _them_. Me and Brian and Pepper and Wensley told them to shove it, and they went back into their things. Apart from Death. He can’t disappear into a thing because he’s the inevitable consequence of creation, he said. And Anathema and her boyfriend have stopped all the rockets and missiles.”

“I see…” Aziraphale said. He looked at the items which the boy had gestured at. “Oh. Oh. That’s… my sword.”

“That was War’s sword,” said the girl, looking at him suspiciously.

“Was it? Oh, no…” Aziraphale picked it up carefully. “I gave it to Adam and Eve. To protect them. To keep them warm. And they created War instead…?”

“They’d have done it anyway,” said the Antichrist witheringly. “It’s not all about _you_, you know. That’s like saying that it’s because Brian got a Megablaster 3000 for his birthday that we started the war with the Johnsonites. We’d have done it anyway. We _had_ done it anyway. The Megablaster 3000 was awesome, but we did plenty of war with sticks and stuff before Brian got that.”

“And after again when Pepper broke it,” said Brian mournfully.

“You weren’t giving me a proper turn with it! Because you’re _sexist_!”

“See?” said the Antichrist. “We don’t need _you_ to go fighting each other. We can do that just fine on our own. Are you _crying_?”

“I’m ever so sorry, just a little,” said Aziraphale, and wiped his face. “I’ve been worried about it for such a long time you see. But you’re right.” The children looked very worried that they had made an adult cry (whether he was human or not, he was obviously an _adult_ non-human).

The young woman had walked across to pick up the book. “I remember you two. You hit me with your car.”

“You hit my car with your bike,” said Crowley. He felt strangely short of breath. It was clear now that Aziraphale was never going to kill the boy; he felt a cold nausea at the thought of doing it himself.

The Antichrist’s head snapped around. “You _don’t_ _have to_. I get _why_ you think you do, but just _listen_. Even if they say they can give me a whole new Earth I don’t want it. It won’t be the _same_ Earth. Maybe it’ll be new sheep and whales and Dog and trees and fish, yeah, but the old ones’ll still be dead. And I’m not like that. I’m not going to destroy nothing.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “It does a very old heart good to hear it,” he said gently. “But they’re still coming. Heaven and Hell. They still want to fight.”

As though in answer to him, before them all a bolt of lightning struck the ground. And next to it, the tarmac boiled, and the earth began to churn.

*

Some things were different, but some things were the same.

Crowley and Aziraphale sat next to each other on the bus stop bench outside the churchyard, passing a bottle of wine between them in quiet exhaustion as the International Express delivery man drove away with the Accoutrements of the Apocalypse. Aziraphale passed Crowley a small scrap of old paper. “This fell out of the book. Found it on the ground, with the sword.”

Crowley read it. “Right.”

“Mm-hm.” Aziraphale took a long swig of wine, and handed it back to Crowley. “I know it’s another puzzle, but I just cannot, for the literal life of me, think.”

“You’re tired. Both are. Need some caffeine and some chocolate, right?” Crowley passed the scrap back with the bottle.

“I need an end to this,” Aziraphale replied. He caught Crowley’s look, and shook his head. “… not like before. It’s not like before.” He closed his eyes, and leant his head back, as though they were on the old Chesterfield sofa in the bookshop, rather than on a wooden bench.

Crowley was staring at him from behind his sunglasses. He took them off slowly. Carefully. “Good.”

Aziraphale heaved a sigh, and looked back at Crowley again. If he was surprised by his eyes he didn’t show it; instead he relaxed and smiled a little, as he always did when he saw Crowley’s eyes without his sunglasses. “I’m not tired of living. Even with all the anxiety, the _constant_ anxiety, the last twelve years have actually… They’ve been some of the best I’ve ever known. Because of you. Because of my friendship with you. For the first time in a long time I want to carry on living. Which feels very strange. It feels very vulnerable.”

“Wanting something usually does,” Crowley said, with the voice of painful personal experience.

“Well, you’re the professional.... I’m just so tired of being afraid. And now I’m doubly afraid. I could bear it when I was only afraid for myself.”

Crowley watched him. The silence had its hooks in him. “… I can understand that,” he said, finally. He had to force the words out.

“They’re going to kill us,” Aziraphale said. Crowley could _hear_ the lump in the angel’s throat; he could feel its twin lodged in his own. “They’re going to kill both of us.”

“They’re going to _try_,” Crowley said. Aziraphale attempted to look _brave, _and a crack ran right down through Crowley’s voice. “Angel, please. Remember last time. They didn’t get us then either.”

Aziraphale was trying, and magnificently failing, to keep his face under control. “You said that it’d be all right. That you’d think of something.” He gave Crowley a very wobbly smile. “Even if it’s a lie… do you think you could say that again?”

“God, _Aziraphale_,” Crowley moaned, and grabbed him. It was a painful kiss, desperate and broken; their teeth clacked together, and Aziraphale tasted like wine and tears. But he gripped Crowley’s hair so tightly that Crowley felt his own eyes water. His fingertips dug into the back of Aziraphale’s head like claws. He wished he could be inside Aziraphale’s body again; he had been so relieved to be given another corporation, and now he wanted nothing more than to shed it, to be so close to Aziraphale that there wasn’t a breath between their atoms. The mixture of essences, the spiritual mingling which angels used to laugh through, in the joy before Eden.

Even though now they were both closer to weeping than to laughter – what was it about them and benches? – he longed for it. He wanted to be pierced with Aziraphale’s despair as deeply as his own; if it was Aziraphale’s he wanted it, whatever it was, however much it hurt. And the way Aziraphale pressed against him, and scratched his fingernails on Crowley’s ear in his haste to kiss every inch of his face… it made him think that perhaps Aziraphale wanted the same thing.

The bus for Oxford passed right past them. They barely noticed it.

When they finally broke apart Crowley pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s so hard he saw stars. “I will think of something. Aziraphale. _I will think of something._”

*

Crowley waylaid the High Wycombe bus instead, in the world’s politest hijacking. Aziraphale slept against him the whole way back, curled in tightly on himself. Crowley held him up, and secured Aziraphale’s head against his shoulder with his chin. He had to think of something. Aziraphale had asked for a lie, but Crowley had given a promise.

The bus dropped them off outside the bookshop, as Crowley’s flat had been blown to Kingdom come (which it then hadn’t). They disembarked holding hands like children, and Aziraphale tiredly fumbled for the door key. Crowley looked at the bookshop, and thought of his flat. “Is Hastur dead, then?”

“No. Only holy water or hellfire can do that.” He stepped on through, and Crowley saw the Kabbalah circle on the floor, and the extinguished candles. “That was just a good, old-fashioned smiting. But it will have crippled him, permanently. In himself, not just in his physical body. I gave him the full monty.”

“Can’t say I’m too sad about it,” Crowley said.

“No.” Aziraphale walked through to retrieve two glasses and a bottle of something. “At least the Earth will be safe from his own particular brand of sadism for a while. But he’ll come out the winner in the long run. I imagine we’ll be the ones on the receiving end of the real thing soon enough, so I thought we could have this – I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, but I doubt we’ll get another chance-“

“Hellfire and holy water,” Crowley said, and there it was. The idea, fully formed in his head. All the pieces which Aziraphale had given him had fallen into perfect place He looked up through the new oculus with no small degree of awe. “You Absolute _Bitch_.”

“_Excuse_ me?” Aziraphale said, bringing out a bottle of champagne.

“Not you! God!”

“Crowley!” he shouted, with genuine anger. “That’s a thousand times worse!”

“No, no, no!” Crowley was giddy. He grabbed the bottle and tossed it over to the sofa, and spun Aziraphale in a circle instead. “I have it, I have an idea. I have an idea. But if you say _a single word_ about ineffability or God having a plan all along I’ll kill you myself!” He immediately kissed Aziraphale. “I wouldn’t, you know I wouldn’t, never could, but don’t say it anyway! Oh!”

He could barely get the words out in his excitement; his serpent’s tongue slipped and slid around them. Aziraphale poured two large glasses full of champagne, and looked like he wanted to cry, _again_. Crowley supposed they’d both had a long day, and he knew that sometimes hope was more painful than despair.

“We could do it,” Aziraphale said around his champagne flute half an hour later. They’d both ended up on the floor, with Aziraphale’s chess pieces scattered around them from their attempts to work out how their plan would work. A black knight lay among the white, and a white queen among the black. “But they’ll sense it’s not us, _surely_.”

“You said it yourself. First day I arrived. People want easy answers. Not just humans. If you present yourself in a certain way, most people won’t look any deeper. That’s what made Adam so fucking terrifying. First person I’ve ever met who did.”

Aziraphale gave up trying to pour, and necked champagne from the bottle. “And you fooled me.”

“Ngh. Give that here. They barely even _know_ me down there,” Crowley said. He hated the thought of Aziraphale in Hell. Especially for him. “And I know Gabriel too. If they get any sense of evil from me… They’ll probably just think it’s you being you. Bastards.”

“Hopefully Hastur will be too poorly to be there,” said Aziraphael, and Crowley got champagne up his nose laughing. “What?”

“Only you could blast someone off the face of the Earth and subsequently use the adjective _poorly_.”

“Fine. _Unconscious_. But if he’s not, what if he recognises me?”

“But if it’s that… that essence thing. He’ll only really feel it if you’re touching, right? Or… Or. If you could spare a feather, why not carry one? Then if he _is_ around, and he _does_ get a sense of you, you can blame it on that.” His cheeks felt hot. “Say you gave it to me as a token.”

“As a _token_,” Aziraphale said. His eyes were very soft. “A token of… It is perhaps the kind of thing I would do.”

Despite the champagne Crowley’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. “Hm.”

“Set me as a seal over your heart, as a seal upon your arm,” Aziraphale said. It was his quoting voice, but Crowley couldn’t place it; Aziraphale was saying it to himself more than to Crowley, he sensed. “So that’s what it is.”

“That’s what what is?”

“Love. As strong as death,” Aziraphale said. It was as though he had, quite calmly, set Crowley on fire; Crowley spilt champagne all over the Qom carpet in his haste to get to Aziraphale, to touch him, to kiss him. “But that’s what you said,” Aziraphale murmured, between kisses. “Set me as a seal over your heart-“

“You are a _romantic_,” Crowley said, grazing his teeth over Aziraphale’s lip. “Under all that jaded cynicism…”

“Well, _obviously_,” Aziraphale said, and clung to him. Crowley’s breathing was deep as he sat back, drawing Aziraphale down against him, his back against the sofa. “Just look at me.”

“I am – marvellous view,” and laughed when Aziraphale laughed at it. He kissed the angel’s flyaway hair. “All right. We need to swap.”

“We need a feather first,” Aziraphale said. He vanished his torn shirt and waistcoat with a gesture, and unfolded his shining wings. “I imagine one of them will be loose, given all the excitement.”

Crowley could barely breathe. Aziraphale took his hand and guided it, firmly, towards his primaries. “One of the coverts, probably; I’ll shift.”

Crowley stopped their hands, half an inch short of the pearlescent feathers. This felt even more momentous than sharing Aziraphale’s body. That had been intimate, yes, but Aziraphale had so many terrible memories nestled between his feathers. “Are you sure?”

Aziraphale’s hand lingered on his. His tarnished silver eyes were thoughtful. “I remember once saying to you that it’s when you have doubts that trust actually matters.”

“I remember,” Crowley said. His heart was in a hundred thousand splinters, and Aziraphale held every last one in his hands. “I understand.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “When I said that I’d never _not_ doubted in all my existence. But it turns out that trusting without any doubts at all is quite astonishingly lovely.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a completely rotten, wretched week, and I am so sorry I haven't been able to respond to your comments. I promise that I will in a few days, when the sailing might be a bit more smooth! But writing this brings me a little calmness amidst the other nastiness. Hello as well to new readers, thank you for your comments!

Aziraphale stood in a daze, hands tied tightly in front of him. Prince Beelzebub was seated in a throne decorated with horns. Hastur also sat, to the left, because he could not stand. Half of his chest was missing, and his face was twisted almost beyond recognition. He did not need to breathe, but with every movement there was a creaking groan of pain, or a sharp whistle through the teeth.

Aziraphale almost felt bad. He didn’t like to see pain, even in a creature as sadistic and vicious as Hastur. If he’d had the time Aziraphale would have finished him with holy water. Perhaps it would have been kinder. Like shooting a rabid dog.

He hadn’t been expecting the demon to Beelzebub’s right. Crowley had mentioned Dagon, Lord of the Files, a couple of times, but Aziraphale hadn’t realised that they were _Diganiel_. A shift in spelling mirrored the shift in being; they were no longer Aziraphale’s fellow-cherub, who had loved grain and golden, growing things. They had once made crowns from wheat for all the other cherubs, fanning out to mimic their halos.

Now their face was covered in silver scales. Their pupils were almost white, and their teeth sharp, and pointed. A fish that swam in the depths.

He was surprised most of all that they were having a trial, even if it was a farcical one. And that there was a viewing gallery of other demons, all craning to get a look at the famous Crowley. It reminded him horribly of the Judgement Theatre, and he was glad that Crowley didn’t have to endure _that_. It had already happened to Aziraphale; he was already damaged goods. But it struck him how similar this was to his demotion, and how dissimilar it was to his arrest twelve years before.

The thought swirled in his head, slow, almost relaxed. Right now, he had to concentrate on being Crowley. If he survived, he could return to the thought later. He had to follow his own advice: have an answer ready, in case one was shocked out of him.

“Hi, guys,” he said, looking around. Crowley had tried to explain to him what Hell was like so that he wouldn’t be too surprised. But the clean bathtub had never featured. “Very nice.”

“Not for you, it won’t be,” Hastur said with a breathy snarl, and Aziraphale dared to hope. If there was a bathtub, Crowley might have been right about the methods of punishment.

He had to act like Crowley – Crowley, who was so brave, who was quick and witty, and who shone like a brand. Even here. Especially here.

He should be daring. Crowley was nothing if not daring. “Four of us – what’s it to be? We could play bridge.”

“The trial of a traitor?” Beelzebub responded. Fair enough. Aziraphale doubted they played much bridge down here. As card games went it relied far too much on trust.

They were the judge, of course. Hastur was the prosecutor.

“And so Dagon here is defending me?” To be perfectly honest, he was a little impressed.

“Oh, I’m afraid not. I’m just here to help Hastur if there’s anything he’s forgotten,” Dagon said, showing their pointed teeth again.

Ah. Right. Well. It was interesting, though: Diganiel’s old politeness, twisting around him like a predator around prey. But somewhat pointed as well. Their words, like their teeth, pointed in one than one direction.

Aziraphale tucked it away, to examine at leisure. The possible criticism excited no reaction at all, while he suspected the Archangels would have closed ranks. _They_ tried to present an entirely united front on all things, even down to finishing each others’ sentences and references. It reminded him of why he had been so betrayed by Kralel’s deceit: he had not expected it. If, in Hell, back-stabbing was expected, then that in itself could create a certain trust. You could trust that you could _not_ trust your fellow demons. Betrayal was predictable, and could thus be accounted for.

Heaven was far more brittle.

It made him fear for Crowley.

*

As we grow older, life seems to speed up. A year flashes by in what feels like an instant; we blink, and a month has vanished. It’s not like when we were children. When we were children, days could drag on interminably. An hour could have been an eternity, for all we knew. A summer was as rich with time as a miser with his gold, or we would honestly believe that we would never see the end of winter.

The exception is when something traumatic or unexpected happens. Suddenly the minutes drag by, and are thick with thought. Every second is burdened with meaning. Then, when we are safe, and the adrenaline fades away, life resumes its normal pace. Or it goes even faster for a while, like a river bursting through a dam.

There is a relatively simple reason for this. Our brains are lazy. Every new experience or departure from our routine takes energy and effort to comprehend and encode, and so when an experience is similar enough to a past one, the brain generally prefers to file it with a concise note which just says “See above”. It takes far less time to read “See above” than even something as short as “I’ve never seen that shade of blue before.” One file is four times longer than the other. With hundreds of these files every second, every thought and taste and sight and sensation and sound, the disparities swiftly add up. Thus, when we look back over our memories, our perception is that time has passed far more quickly.

If you wish to make time slow down again, you must seek out new experiences, and really _experience_ them. Experience them as a child does, with wide eyes, and no preconceptions. You can try to trick your brain with a certain degree of mindfulness, but the genuinely _new_ will work better.

This was why, when Crowley sat tied to a chair in the Archangels’ Room and wearing Aziraphale’s body like a cloak around him, he didn’t think, _it feels like yesterday that I was last in here_. It didn’t. Glancing back, the twelve years felt like centuries. It was the millennia in between the First Fall and his assignment to Earth that had gone by in the beat of a pair of wings.

They had gagged him – Aziraphale’s voice was really that dangerous to them, then – and so he had had plenty of time to work out his strategy. He remembered how at his demotion, Aziraphale had wept, and begged, to no avail. At the fall of the Watchers, he had been like a statue carved from marble. He had learnt that pleas for mercy went unheeded.

Then on the night that he Fell, what then? Once he had absorbed the shock and pain of Kralel’s betrayal, he had been thoughtfully intelligent. Quiet. Delightfully petty, showing a solid core of stubborness. But he’d been tired, and about as suicidal as it was possible for an angel to be.

From his own experience, Crowley knew that Gabriel and the others wouldn’t feel guilt at what they were doing. He had felt shamed at how close he had come to Falling the first time, and anxiety that that shame would be exposed again, but never guilt. Not until he had been on Earth. He had only a theoretical understanding of it when Aziraphale had led him to that bench in Soho Square, and apologised for rushing him. That had not been anxiety, or shame – that had been guilt, born out of compassion.

Had Aziraphale become what he was because he had had compassion from the beginning? Or had he learnt it too, in the Garden? Whatever the answer, Crowley was relatively confident that Gabriel had none, so trying to make the Archangels feel guilty, or appealing to their kindness, would be futile.

But shame… he might have a shot at shaming them. Shaming them with courage and courtesy. They had known that Aziraphale would be polite, and diffident, and gentle, and they had still feared to allow him to speak in the presence of non-Archangels. Or maybe because of that. It was easy to dismiss a traitor who was ranting and raging. Far less easy to dismiss one who glowed with calm righteousness and spoke reasonably. Had they thought Aziraphale’s words might engender shame? Doubt? He suspected the latter.

He’d need to make them _fear_. But he would have to do it as Aziraphale.

The floor was shining and grey. Level. Still. Not at all like the swirling, gaping maw that he sometimes had nightmares about.

“Ah! Aziraphale. _So_ glad you could join us.”

Crowley gave the mildest smile he could manage to cover the roil of hatred in his belly. How could he have ever believed that Gabriel cared about him? How could he have longed for Gabriel’s approval, even affection? He wanted to reach back through the years and _throttle_ Kralel for his wilful blindness.

“You could have sent a message. I’d have come,” he said. Aziraphale’s voice rose in pitch when he was nervous, but it was strange to hear it from himself. He didn’t have to act. Right now, Aziraphale was in Hell for him, and if Crowley had been wrong, they’d both die because of it. “But really, a kidnapping, in broad daylight? At least last time you arrested me in private.”

“An extraordinary rendition,” said Gabriel. “Have we heard from our new associate?”

“He’s on his way.”

Gabriel grinned at Crowley and shook his fists exultantly. “He’s on his way.”

“A _new _associate,” Crowley couldn’t help but say. “A rather more formal arrangement than last time?”

“All thanks to you,” Gabriel said. He still wore an animal rictus as he approached the chair to which Crowley was tied. “A little exchange. I think you’re going to like this.”

They had discussed what they thought their respective captors would be like, and how to react. It had been getting on to five in the morning, and Aziraphale had been nervous. It had been so strange to watch him wring Crowley’s thin hands. “I think he’ll pretend to be upset about it. That’s what he was like when I was demoted.”

Crowley had shaken Aziraphale’s head. “That was in public. I think it’ll be like when I Fell, but he’s run out of all patience. I think he’ll gloat.”

Rarely, very rarely, he hated being right.

Gabriel was walking to the chair, hands together in a horrible mockery of prayer. “I really do,” he said, and Crowley’s brain rushed to catch up. Gabriel bowed to look him in the eye, and the grin twisted off of his face. “And I _bet_ you didn’t see _this one_ coming.”

Crowley sat like a king on his throne, receiving the obeisance due to him. He raised his eyebrows, and gave a ghost of a smile. Aziraphale could be a sardonic bastard when he wanted to be.

He prayed that he had been right, that they would try to kill Aziraphale with hellfire, and he caught himself. When had praying ever done anything? It must be the setting, he reasoned, fucking with his mind. No. God had shown that She didn’t care about any of this. It was down to them.

*

“… and the murder of a fellow demon – a crime I saw with my own eyes.”

Beelzebub seemed bored. Aziraphale could understand why, as his fate had already been decided. Why go through the farce of a trial? To prolong Crowley’s suffering? To make an example of him? “Creatures of Hell! You have heard the evidence against the demon known as Crowley. What is your verdict?

“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” they chanted in vicious excitement. Dagon pumped their fist in triumph – had they doubted the outcome?

Aziraphale felt a strange horrified amusement, a fluttery hysteria. It was the manifestation of everything he felt every time he was in Heaven, he realised. Hell might be more open with their judgement, but the feeling of being watched was the same, as were the cries of ‘Guilty!’ directed at him. It was just that in Heaven the stares were unveiled by a grimy window, and the cries were silent.

“Do you have anything to say, before we take our vengeance on you?” asked Beelzebub.

Another surprise. If the entire point of this exercise was to silence Crowley, why offer him the chance to speak, in front of a crowd of demons? It made no sense. Words had vanished from him; he hunted for some, wildly. He shrugged to give himself time. “So what’s it to be?” he asked with an attempt at nonchalance. Crowley was brave, Crowley was not a coward. He had to appear brave too. “An eternity in the deepest pit…?”

He tried not to show his fear, but Hastur had his wish; Aziraphale truly was afraid again. If it was an eternity of torture then Hastur would find out quicksharp that he wasn’t really Crowley, and Gabriel’s threat of twelve years ago would be realised. And even worse, it meant that perhaps the angels in Heaven would do something equally awful to Crowley.

“No, no,” Hastur gasped. His eyes were jet black, and what was left of his face was twisted in loathing. “We’re going to do something even worse. Let the punishment fit the crime.”

Aziraphale felt her before he saw her. He felt the presence of an angel at least, one who wasn’t going to any effort to damp down their aura. This angel announced her presence as though with a trumpet, as she sauntered into the makeshift court, bearing a glass jug filled with water.

Aziraphale exhaled, frowning a little. “The Archangel Michael? That’s… unlikely.”

Dagon offered him a toothy grin. “Cooperation with our old enemies.” It made Aziraphale’s stomach turn over – or, technically, Crowley’s. He was, as ever, completely out of step. He had been thinking of Dagon as an old friend, current enemy. But now Dagon thought of angels as old enemies, and current…?

Not friends. This was proved by the words Hastur spat, but Michael took it in stride. She poured the holy water into the bathtub, and said she would return later to collect it. “That’s holy water,” Aziraphale asked. Just to confirm.

“The holiest.” Michael smiled, showing golden teeth. “Yes.”

Beelzebub still looked as though this trial was the most tedious thing they had ever endured. “Uh, it’s not that we don’t trust you, Michael, but obviously we don’t trust you. Dagon, test it.”

Relief and outrage warred in Aziraphale’s soul. It was different, to Crowley’s use of holy water. Crowley had used it as it was meant to be used: as protection against evil. He had not sprayed Ligur with it; Ligur, in forcing the door in Crowley’s flat, had brought it down upon himself. Quite literally.

This was another thing altogether. This was not protection against evil. Crowley wasn’t evil. Even if he was, he would be defenceless and alone here. Was it Heaven who thought they were protecting themselves against the threat of Crowley’s words? It made his head spin. He thought that he had been prepared for it; they had guessed that this would be Crowley’s punishment, after all.

But intellectual acceptance and the reality of the thing were completely different. That the holiness of God had been brought down into Hell had been astonishing enough. But that it would be carried there by an archangel… the _blasphemy_ of it! And carried down to cause pain too. It was a sacramental, given by God for protection. To misuse it like this… He felt sick with the horror of it. He felt hot with fury at Michael in particular. _Who is like God?_ he wanted to ask her, but he was not Aziraphale.

He was Crowley. Crowley had renounced God; he couldn’t then defend Her honour.

Dagon picked up the small, rotund demon that had been acting as court official by his pathetic, decorated sash – the ‘dignity and austerity of Hell’, Aziraphale remembered reading in Lewis, and at the time had felt so wretchedly guilty than his mental image had been that of Heaven – and carried it to the bathtub. The creature begged, asking in terror what had it done? What had it done?

He couldn’t let his horror show on his face. He didn’t know if Crowley would. When Dagon dropped the small demon into the water it fizzed like alka seltzer, a simile which would haunt Aziraphale’s mind ever after. There was fire, and pained shrieking, and then there was nothing. The water was as clear as it had ever been, with only a few ripples on the surface, fading away.

How many times had Aziraphale performed the rite? _“In awe and humility we beg you, Lord, to regard with favour this creature thing of salt and water, to let the light of your kindness shine upon it, and to hallow it with the dew of your mercy.”_ How was this kindness? How was this mercy? In a deep, fiery part of his soul he burnt with fury. He felt pity for the small demon, but only a grain of it; too much of him was on fire with protective rage.

_This is what they wanted to do to Crowley_. They wanted to see him writhe and fizz in agony, and dissolve into nothing. Hell didn’t appreciate what they had gained from Heaven’s loss, and Heaven was helping them.

“Demon Crowley!” spake Beelzebub from the throne. “I sentence you to extinction by holy water. Have you anything to say?”

Another incredible offer of the chance to speak. Aziraphale suddenly realised why: their pleasure at his fear outmatched their desire for his silence. It was pure sadism. They wanted to gloat, even at the risk of him saying something dangerous. They would be taking pleasure in Crowley’s fear. “Well, yes.”

This was a chance to say… what? He wasn’t going to convince anyone, of anything. He wasn’t going to sway anyone to the cause of peace and compassion with some ex tempore rhetoric. He had learnt that long ago. His priority now was to _protect Crowley._ Almost everything else was insignificant in comparison. He forced his emotions down, deep down. The last thing he needed was to make Crowley’s body start glowing. He had to be calm. He had to be stoic. He had to be like Crowley.

_The light of Your kindness, the dew of Your mercy_, he thought. _God, heal my strength._

“This is a new jacket, and I’d hate to ruin it. Do you mind if I take it off?”

*

“You don’t get this view down in the basement!” A demon whom Crowley recognised as a member of The Legion walked past him, up to the small stone circle. He upended a cast iron pot into it.

A towering maelstrom of fire blazed up; Crowley could feel the heat of it, and the malevolence. It _hungered_. It longed to consume and to linger; to rake across soulstuff and embrace it unto death.

“Can I hit him?” suddenly asked the Legionnaire. “I’ve always wanted to hit an angel.”

Gabriel smiled magnanimously. “Please. Go ahead.”

Crowley turned Aziraphale’s head, and looked up at the Legionnaire. He did not need to act to wear contempt on Aziraphale’s face, but beneath that Crowley lurked, like a killer whale in deep water. _Go on_, murmured Crowley, beneath Aziraphale’s disdainful eyes. _Go on._

“Actually, I’ve got-“ said the Legionnaire, backing down from Aziraphale’s glass-green eyes. “Need to just- I’ll be back to get it-“ He fled.

Crowley looked back at Gabriel, his face the very picture of innocence.

“So. With one act of treason, you averted the war.”

Crowley smiled. “It wasn’t treason.”

“You are a traitor, Aziraphale.”

“No. If I’d committed treason, I’d have Fallen.” Crowley shrugged as much as the bonds around his wrists allowed. “Unless you’re setting yourself up as a ruler against whom treason can be committed…”

Uriel saved Gabriel from answering. They tugged at the ropes, which untied without the least resistance. “Up.”

He was tempted to refuse. That’s what Aziraphale had tried to do, twelve years ago. He had tried to force them to get their own hands dirty.

But the more they touched him, the greater the risk that they would feel there was something wrong. So he took a moment to straighten his sleeves, and stood, slowly, as though he was reluctant. As though he was afraid.

He wasn’t afraid of anything in this room. Not the hellfire, and not Gabriel or the archangels. Not even God. There was absolutely nothing any of them could do to him that they hadn’t already.

No, that wasn’t true. They hadn’t cut off his wings or his heads. They only thought they had.

This thought made him remember to straighten Aziraphale’s bow-tie. It was a nervous tic; Crowley had also noticed a preference for high collars. Protecting his last neck, possibly. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider?”

It was strange that some infinitesimal part of him still _hoped that they would._ There was one unthinking bit of faith which hadn’t been snuffed out. “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake!” he said, and pulled himself back in, sharply. There was genuine distress there. There was _Kralel_ there, and for the first time in twelve years he allowed himself just an instant of acknowledgement. Kralel had betrayed, yes. But Kralel had been betrayed too. He’d been gullible and naïve, but only because he’d been innocent. Aziraphale had tried to protect that innocence. It was Gabriel who had used it, and who had killed it.

He’d never grieved for that slaughtered innocence. He’d seen Aziraphale’s innocence destroyed, and destroyed a last worn, fluttering shred of it himself. But here, wrapped in Aziraphale, he felt the first unfurling tendril of anger on behalf of his own. As though Aziraphale’s body held enough love for Crowley between its atoms that a little of it seeped into his own spirit. Inside his chest, a knot he’d deliberately never looked at loosened just a little.

“Well, for _Heaven’s_ sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors,” said Gabriel. “So. Into the flame.”

Crowley wanted to grin at him. He wanted to slither right up to Gabriel and twist around him, suggest that they all go down to the Judgement Theatre. Call everyone in. If you want to make an example, let’s give them a _show_.

But Aziraphale had suggested that twelve years ago, and called Gabriel’s bluff. Both of them would know there was no point. And this _needed_ to happen. Then, they had been desperate. Now, they had been forewarned. They knew that they needed to risk it, if they were ever going to be left alone.

So instead, Crowley decided that this was the moment to shame them. He wanted to force them to look him in the eye and see the kind of angel they wanted to destroy. “Right. Well.” He sighed, and smiled. As much like Aziraphale as he could. His voice was soft and gentle. “Lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.”

It was not sincere, of course, but Crowley was sincerely aiming for graciousness, because Aziraphale was gracious. It was one of those Aziraphalish phrases; he learnt them and treasured them in every language he had to use, he’d told Crowley once. It made life easier when he felt awkward and out of place. He had given up his weapon, and he had no shield except courtesy.

This was a polite phrase suitable for bidding farewell to friends at a funeral.

“Shut your stupid mouth, and die already,” Gabriel replied. He made a mocking imitation of Crowley’s smile-as-Aziraphale, and just as swiftly killed it.

The smile it was parodying fell from Aziraphale’s face. Crowley gave a small, sad smile instead. Aziraphale often smiled when he was sad, or anxious, or lonely. It was one of those things he did to try to cheer himself up, like singing a little tune, or patting himself, or rocking back and forth as he read, or stroking his own hair. Because he’d never been able to rely on anyone else for that.

Crowley looked back at Gabriel with eyes of ice, and stepped into the fire.

*

_Est in aqua dulci non invidiosa voluptas._ There is in fresh water a pleasure which creates no envy, no resentment, that no one begrudges – a pleasure as pure and sweet as itself, Aziraphale thought. The holy water was cool, and all the anger in him had had been washed away. The holiness refreshed his soul, gentled every fretful, angry part of him. It was like plunging your hands into cold water on a roasting hot day, gathering it up into cupped hands as it overflowed, or diving into the sea. _Pale water, frail water, wild rash and reeling water_. It was like sunlight caught in waterfall spray, scattering diamonds and rainbows. All the mud and darkness and weariness and thirst was cleansed from him.

_Nothing under heaven is as soft and yielding as water. Yet for attacking the hard and strong, nothing can compare with it._ Who said that? Lao Tzu, he remembered, the _Tao Te Ching_. It was so fitting, he thought with loving awe. He never ceased to be amazed by Her. _Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam_, Aziraphale prayed in the depths of Hell.

The holy water enveloped him in kindness. It was as light as dew on him.

Aziraphale opened his eyes, and took in the horrified stares all around him. Of course. He was meant to be fizzing and shrieking in terrified agony. He smiled mildly and flicked some of the water at his audience; when it hit the window it spat and hissed as though the whole thing was coated in burning oil.

“It’s very relaxing. All one needs is a rubber duck,” he said, and splashed again. He cupped the water and washed his face, combing it back through his hair. Might as well put any of them off touching any part of him. He smiled at Beelzebub, whose look of utter horror was as soothing to his soul as the water.

“He’s gone native. He izn’t one of uzz anymore,” they said to Dagon, without taking their eyes off him. Good, thought Aziraphale. That meant Beelzebub was afraid, if they were unwilling to look away and lower their defences. This was the moment to push, instinct told him.

“So, you’re probably thinking,” he said casually, “‘If he can do _this_, I wonder what else he can do?’ And very, _very_ soon, you’re all going to get the chance to find out.”

After all, only God could ontologically change a being. He would let that knowledge percolate in their heads. If they thought that Crowley was invincible, they would leave him alone. All of this was for Crowley.

“He’s bluffing!” Hastur wheezed. “We can take him! One demon, against the rest of Hell? What’s he going to do?”

Aziraphale _laughed_ at him. He looked Hastur up and down, then raised an eyebrow. “_Can_ you?” He scooped up some water, and waggled his fingers at Hastur, letting the water trickle down his arm. It felt good, to see Hastur so afraid of _him_ for a change. “So eager to find out?”

“Shut it!” Beelzebub shouted, but it was to Hastur, not to him.

Hastur ignored them. “I distinctly remember,” he said, “that when you first arrived, his Lordship said that if you disappointed him, he would take your wings.”

Aziraphale laughed again, but this time in shock. Crowley hadn’t mentioned this. They _hadn’t planned for this_.

_What can they do to you_, a small voice in his head said, _that Heaven hasn’t already done to you?_

“All right,” Aziraphale said. He spread his dripping hands. “Where is he? He can have them, if he can take them. If that’s the precedent that you three want to set for demons for disappoint him. … _will_ he be disappointed, that you can’t kill me?”

“Get him out of here!” Beelzebub buzzed furiously at them. “This’ll cause a riot!” Their hand spasmed in the direction of the window behind Aziraphale. “What are you all looking at? Nothing to see, nothing to see here!”

Aziraphale flicked more water as they reluctantly dispersed and indulged in a moment of very unangelic glee. How often he’d wanted to make a face at the angels who stared contemptuously at him, or call them out. Instead he’d always looked away in shame.

As Crowley, he didn’t have to be ashamed.

As Crowley, he was noble. As Crowley, he was confident, and brazen, and bold. When Michael came back into the courtroom he beamed at her. “Michael! Dude!”

Crowley was cool. Aziraphale was _quite_ sure that ‘dude’ was very cool slang.

He asked her to miracle him a towel, and in her astonishment, she did. He remembered at his demotion she had gripped his left wing so that God’s punisher could saw through it. But now she ministered to him. To him and to Crowley.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to thank her. He unfolded the towel, but didn’t dry himself. He just let the holy water drip.

He had never felt so happy. He had to keep as firm a hold on himself as possible, or he felt as though he could explode into stars and sunbeams. He had been able to endure what Crowley would have been destroyed by. And Crowley had saved him in return. By being loved Aziraphale felt as though he had become a completely different being; he had become someone who was steadfast, who had completely unexpectedly found a measure of courage and dignity. He had faced the thing he feared more than anything else, and for the first time in his existence he felt a measure of freedom.

“I think it would be better for _everyone_,” he said silkily, “if I were to be left alone in future.” Because he would annihilate any one of them who came for Crowley. He stared at Beelzebub, with Crowley’s eyes unhidden and open, and nodded to prompt the Prince of Hell. Terrified, they gave a small nod back.

He looked to Dagon and Hastur, and waited for them to nod. They did. Finally, he looked back at Michael. He would defend Crowley from _any_ threat.

She nodded. Aziraphale smiled.

*

The hellfire was like a hot shower. Crowley felt his muscles unknot in the heat; he loved Earth, but he realised now just how _cold_ he had been. The hellfire wrapped around him as attentively as a passionate lover, flickering across every inch of him. He breathed in deep, and he felt its answering joy, to be allowed to plunge down, right into his core. It was the warmth of smugness, of superiority, of the satisfaction of getting one over on a rival whom you despise. It was the gratification of knowing that you are admired and wanted, and of power; the power to frighten, or manipulate. The delicious heat of knowing your own will, and the desire to inflict in on others.

_Yes, yes, yes,_ the hellfire whispered as it surged around him,_ all of that and more. You are of us, we are one, we are fire. We are the purest and the oldest. The depth of water is nothing as to the depth of heat._

He gathered it up, and the hellfire felt his unholy glee and screamed in delight at it. He breathed out, and the hellfire leapt forward in malice, longing for angelflesh to burn.

Gabriel, Uriel, and Sandalphon all staggered back, and Crowley grinned. He would make them as afraid of Aziraphale as Aziraphale had always been afraid of them. He knew that was Aziraphale’s deepest secret, the one that he wouldn’t admit even to himself. That he was more afraid of the archangels than he had ever been of Hastur.

These were the monsters who had taken Aziraphale’s heads. His wings. They had made him scream and weep and they had revelled in it. And they had torn the innocence out of Kralel and watched him Fall.

_Come_, he whispered to the fire, and the fire growled in satisfaction. He raised his hands and stepped out. The fire followed him; it knew his will, and inflamed it, and was inflamed in turn. It danced around his fingers and fashioned glowing gauntlets.

_Like the diamond handcuffs they put on him,_ he said, and he felt the fire laugh.

The archangels almost fell over in their haste to retreat. “Aziraphale – Aziraphale!” Gabriel said, holding out his hands. “Stop!”

“Or what?” Crowley said. “I _asked_ you if you wanted to reconsider. You _must_ have read the Book of Revelation in the course of all this. It’s all written down. _And I will give power unto my two witnesses. These are the two olive trees, and the two candlesticks standing before the God of the earth._ _And if any man will hurt them, fire proceedeth out of their mouth, and devoureth their enemies: and if any man will hurt them, he must in this manner be killed._” He drew in a deep breath.

“Okay, okay! Aziraphale, just- just stop for a second!” Gabriel shouted, hands up. “What do you want?”

“Leave us alone, to do the Lord’s work on Earth,” said Crowley. The hellfire banked in his soul at his reference to God, but that is what Aziraphale would do. That is what Aziraphale would say. It was all he’d ever wanted to do.

But Crowley, well, Crowley wanted to terrify the life out of Gabriel, and that was something the hellfire could understand; it soared to life again with the oxygen of cruelty to feed on, and the archangels huddled together.

It was still better than how Aziraphale and the other angels had huddled at the Fall of the Watchers, in pain and violation as well as fear when Raziel had plunged his hands into their minds, looking for guilt. Crowley didn’t need to do that. He knew their guilt already.

“Leave us alone. Leave us _alone_.” There was fear in Gabriel’s eyes. Fear, and something like awe. This wasn’t just for Aziraphale, Crowley thought. It was for him too. Everything now was for both of them, because they loved each other. Love stronger than death, indeed. But Crowley remembered six thousand years of pain, and it gave him a deep and fierce joy that he wore Aziraphale’s face for this, that Aziraphale could be with him in this moment. That together, in a way, they were facing Heaven, and Heaven would have to look into the face they had always viewed with such unkindness and contempt. “And remember that I was more merciful to you than any of you ever were to me.”

He turned his back on them, and stalked out of Heaven with Aziraphale’s head held high. At the door he stopped for just a second, to shake the hellfire from his hands, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: Dagon; traditionally Dagon was associated with fish due to the Canaanite word 'dag'. Current thinking is that originally, he was a god of fertility and the harvest. I've made the latter Dagon's pre-Fall persona ('digan' is Hebrew for 'grain'), with the fish scales and shark teeth we see in the series being their demonic animal thing.
> 
> Aziraphale quotes Ovid and Gerard Manley Hopkins as well as Lao Tzu during his bath. The line about kindness and dew comes from the Roman Catholic Latin rite for the creation of holy water. 
> 
> "Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam" is Hebrew for "Blessed are you, LORD our God, King of the Universe", and is the beginning of a lot of Jewish blessings. 
> 
> Crowley quotes Revelation 11:3-5. I'd love to one day write a fic about the second Apocalypse with Crowley and Aziraphale as the Two Witnesses, but I've a whole host of other ideas first!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ben wyatt voice* it's about the BENCHES

They stayed in the Ritz until the restaurant closed, and then moved to the Rivoli Bar until that closed as well. Even though it was midnight they didn’t want the evening to end; Crowley felt as though he was regularly being shocked with electricity, or had something fizzing in his veins. Aziraphale was wriggling as though he felt much the same. They silently opted together for a walk, and Crowley led them to Berkeley Square, which had been one of his favourites from his council gardening days.

They stopped for a moment to look at the statue of the woman with her breasts out and a water jug – the _Woman of Samaria_, according to Aziraphale, who had been lovely and made a really excellent kind of fried bread. Richard had been very impressed by how quickly Kralel could clean bird shit off the statues, Crowley said, and was delighted that Aziraphale laughed.

The square was closed, so they had it all to themselves. Aziraphale pointed out the haunted house at Number 50, and began a long rant about the Maggs Brothers and their assorted rudenesses over the last hundred and fifty years.

There had been a downpour while they’d been eating, but the clouds had cleared enough to see the moon and even Sirius, twinkling valiantly against the light pollution. The air was bright with the smell of petrichor; the ground was still wet, and the moonlight and lamplight playing off the water made the path glitter like a galaxy of citrine and apricot and champagne coloured stars.

He realised suddenly that Aziraphale had stopped talking, and his guts dropped like stones, his throat closed up, his heart stopped dead. But there the angel was, standing still, looking up at the branches. Crowley exhaled his terror, and shoved his shaking hands into his pockets. He wondered how long it would take, before his first thought wasn’t that they’d taken Aziraphale from him. “What’s the matter?”

“I thought I heard… Never mind.” Aziraphale went to sit on a bench, and Crowley dried the wood with a quick wave of the hand. “Oh, thank you, my dear. I suppose we’ve both had enough water for one day…”

“Yup.” Crowley lounged back on the bench. “I can’t believe it’s been less than a week. Just today… Never thought I’d be Up There again.”

“And I’d always hoped I’d never be Down There…” Aziraphale wriggled his shoulders, as though he was trying to shake something off them. “I feel so tired, but I don’t want to sleep.”

Crowley looked at him in concern. “We’ll carry on, then. It’s not like I can go home.”

“Oh! My dear, I’m sorry! It feels like that was aeons ago… But of course you’ll come back with me?”

Crowley gave him a crooked smile. “Didn’t want to presume.”

Aziraphale looked so _distressed_ by that; he swallowed tightly, and looked around at the square, the trees, the statues. “There are so many things I love about London,” he said softly. “I’ve been here for more than four hundred years. But the bad memories so outweigh the good. I walk down the street and I remember this riot, or that murder. I saw someone die in that alleyway, that used to be a field where Hastur ripped my arms out, that building was levelled in the Blitz, that’s where he stabbed me, that’s where I stabbed _him_, that’s where he stabbed an old woman and I couldn’t. Couldn’t get there fast enough. I suppose it’s his revenge. Everything coated in some remembered… nastiness. And then the fire, and Armageddon. The bookshop’s never felt the same, even when it was whole again. It’s just been a place to sleep or eat. It’s never felt safe again. Even without all of Heaven knowing where it is, Gabriel thinking he could waltz in whenever he wanted… It’s not felt safe, since the fire.” He took a deep breath. “So I’ve decided to move.”

Crowley had been listening with worried confusion, but now he felt as though the earth beneath his feet had been pulled away. As though he was about to Fall again. “Leave London?” _Leave me_?

“Not far. Still England, I think, but the countryside. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere I could make safe. Near the sea, maybe – I was thinking about the South Downs – with a garden where I could really stretch my wings…”

He was looking at Crowley, and Crowley couldn’t understand his expression. Aziraphale looked so shy, so uncertain. He was twisting his hands in his lap, like he did when he was most nervous; he didn’t so much rock back and forth as sway, just a little, very slowly. “I know we’ve only known each other for twelve years, which in the great scheme of things is no time at all, so I know I’m being unconscionably forward, but… but if you wanted, it you could bear being away from all the cars and people and things, and I would completely understand if you couldn’t, you’ve not had much time at all to enjoy all the bustle, and- and what I mean to say. Is. Would you consider coming with me?”

Crowley could finally breathe again. “Yes! I mean, sure. _Yes_.” He gasped, then laughed to cover his embarrassing relief. “Could find a house right next door, so I could annoy you all the time.”

Aziraphale gave a nervous little flutter of his invisible wings; his body moved with it. “Or the same house. If you. If living with me wouldn’t be utterly… utterly…”

Crowley could only marvel at Aziraphale’s courage, and then remember how many years of practice he’d had to have of being brave. And how many years of loneliness. How many years as an outcast. He tried to be as courageous as the angel, and made the conscious effort to cast away the shield and armour of cool indifference; he took Aziraphale’s hand in both of his, and kissed it. “As close as you’ll have me. Always.”

Aziraphale exhaled shakily, and Crowley realised just how relieved he was, how sure he had been that Crowley would reject him. _How_, he wanted to scream, at Aziraphale and Earth and Heaven altogether. _How could anyone deny you anything? How could anyone not long to be with you constantly? How could anyone be so cruel and so stupid as to make you doubt how brilliant you are?_

“Oh. Oh, good.” Aziraphale smiled in wonder at him. “Do you even know where the South Downs are?”

“Nope.” Crowley shrugged helplessly. “Doesn’t matter.”

Crowley and Aziraphale initiated kisses very differently. Crowley plunged headlong into kisses, in a single second of blazing courage or a desperate rush of need. Aziraphale kissed like he ate, or drank, or listened to music, or examined a beautiful new book. Thoughtfully. Carefully. As though kissing Crowley was so pleasurable that he wanted to savour it. As though Crowley was so precious that he had to be treated with the utmost gentleness. The slow solemnity of it undid Crowley in a way that rough passion couldn’t. It almost _hurt_, the way Aziraphale treated him so reverently.

Aziraphale kissed him that way then, his touch on Crowley’s cheek so featherlight it felt like camphor. And Crowley thought that he would die if he ever went another day without it.

*

Helping to save the world and surviving your subsequent kidnapping and execution for treason is generally a champagne occasion, but it was well after half one as they wandered back towards the bookshop. The Mauritian corner shop on Frith Street was open until four am, though, and they'd had plenty of very expensive wine at the Ritz, so they bought four bottles of prosecco instead.

They were sitting on the Qom carpet, which Aziraphale had moved into the backroom after one too many dirty shoes had sullied it, and they sat on the floor with glasses and cushions scattered around. “It’s so soft,” Aziraphale said, stroking it happily. They had described each other’s executions over dinner, but the prosecco and the fading adrenaline had prompted another re-telling. This time with voices, and impressions. He poured the end of the second bottle into his glass. “We’ve got to go travelling too. I want to show you _Kyoto_. And Egypt. You’ll like Egypt – so hot! Istanbul, we can get more carpets. For our _home_.”

He beamed at Crowley, whose cheeks were pink at the thought. He loved Crowley’s blushes. It was funny, how much softer he was as a demon than he had been as an angel. “We should go tomorrow and see your flat,” he said, his smile dropped away. “I’m sorry I blew it up.”

Crowley laughed and waved his hand. “It was great. No problem. Totally worth it. I didn’t have anything in there anyway. Nothing that mattered.”

“It won’t be like that, in our home,” Aziraphale said firmly. He pointed a finger very seriously at Crowley. “You must make it yours too. Make it _safe_. Make it a good place.”

“Anywhere we live together is a good place,” Crowley simpered, and Aziraphale pretended to throw a cushion at him. “Oi! All right, I will, don’t worry. I can garden!”

“_Yes_,” Aziraphale said. “Be a darling and open that one. Yes – herbs, and flowers. Could make gin! Make mead. Global warming goes on enough and we’ll have wine.”

“You can already make wine in England. Saw it on the television.”

“I meant _good_ wine,” Aziraphale said with a sniff, and held out his glass. Crowley topped him up. “Speaking of which, it’ll be dawn soon, then you can run to Tesco.”

“Why do I have to run to Tesco?” said Crowley. “Why can’t _you_ run to Tesco?”

“I’m _drunk_, my dear, it wouldn’t be seemly,” Aziraphale, grinning at him.

There was the feeling of a cool breeze in the desert. A cold current in a warm sea. The sound of a finger on a crystal wineglass, but silent.

Aziraphale sobered himself up, which was painful when done so quickly, and set the glasses and the bottles on the table with a wave of his hand. “Hey!” said Crowley, and Aziraphale put his fingertips to his lips.

“Angels. I can feel them. You have to hide.”

“What? No!” Crowley jerked his head back. “The whole point of today was that we don’t have to _worry_ about being seen – there’s nothing they can do to us!”

“They _think_ there’s nothing they can do!” whispered Aziraphale. “Hide until I know they’re not trying to do _me_ in with holy water! Go!”

Crowley glared at him, and transformed into a snake. He slid down under the sofa, where Aziraphale still kept his longsword. Aziraphale nodded to him. He didn’t go into the main body of the bookshop, but stayed in their alcove.

He spread his fingers, and the door unlocked and opened with a creak, and the jingle of the bell. The Shaddai carved into the lintel glowed a faint blue. “Who’s there?”

“It’s, um. Hello? It’s the Principality Keteriel.”

“_What?_” Crowley hissed from under the sofa, which was impressive, given that it had no sibilants.

Aziraphale glanced up at the Shaddai, hoping it would keep the angels out if they meant to kill him. “Come in.”

Keteriel seemed as anxious as he was; he first saw her hand, then her hair, a jet black amasunzu decorated with gold thread to evoke the crown of her rank and her name, and then Keteriel herself, when her hand and head didn’t burst into flames just from entering Aziraphale’s presence. His fellow principality had never been to Earth, as far as he knew, but here she was, complete with a body.

Another angel whom he had never seen before followed her; this one wore her hair shorn short, and her eyes flashed a rich green colour. She was glaring at him suspiciously. But there was no resistance under the Shaddai, and they walked into his shop without any impediment. It didn’t make Aziraphale _relax_, but he wasn’t going for his sword, at least. “Hello, Keteriel. It's been a long time. Forgive me, I don’t think I know your friend. I’m Aziraphale.”

“I know,” said the other angel. “Everyone knows who _you_ are.”

Well, that was ominous. “I suppose they do,” Aziraphale said with a brittle smile. “But I don’t know who _you_ are, I’m afraid.”

“This is Bareqethiel,” said Keteriel.

“How lovely; it matches your eyes,” Aziraphale said, with sincerity, and Bareqethiel relaxed a little in turn. “I’d normally offer a cup of tea, but if you’re not used… I know. Let me light some frankincense.”

He gestured for the two angels to follow him, and they sat on the sofa under which Crowley was entwined. “I’m sorry about the smell!” Aziraphale called from the kitchenette. “I keep a few evil books around to balance myself out in case any demons come lurking about and realise I’m here.” He was sure that he heard a snicker from under the sofa, and quickly carried out his best silver censer, as well as charcoal and the resin. He brought out two of the tablets, held them up between his fingers and set them alight with the _whompf_ of power as he burnt off some of his food’s remnants. The resin tears were the pale green colour of salt-dusted sea-glass; he sprinkled them until the charcoal began to smoke, and closed the censer.

“It is not necessary,” said Keteriel. “We can endure the scent of evil.”

“But you shouldn’t have to, and it makes me feel more at ease to be able to play the host. It lets us all pretend for a little longer that after six thousand years you might have decided to pay me a social call. Though I can’t imagine they’d allow you bodies for that…”

The two angels shifted guiltily. Aha. “Bareqethiel works under the Quartermaster,” Keteriel said delicately. “We’re just… borrowing them. For an hour.”

“I see. Well, that was the correct decision; it’s very difficult getting by here without one.” The frankincense really did smell lovely, but Aziraphale found that he needed alcohol in his system for whatever conversation they were about to have. His finished half of his glass in one mouthful. “So. I’m assuming that you are not here on orders – that you wish to speak to me without anyone knowing? Also sensible; I’m death to one’s social status in Heaven.”

“There are posters,” Bareqethiel suddenly said. She was an angel, the lowest rank – Aziraphale wondered whether Keteriel was her supervisor, or a friend. If such things existed in Heaven anymore. “You and Kralel. They say that any interaction with either of you has to be reported immediately. Seeking you out will merit disciplinary action.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, and finished the glass. “And yet here you are.”

“We wanted to talk to you,” said Keteriel, “because one second we were going to be fighting Hell, and the next we weren’t. Everything was called off, and no one’s telling us anything.”

Aziraphale shrugged with great eloquence. “Not much change there, then.”

“But _you _were there,” Bareqethiel said. She looked him up, with her beautiful eyes narrowed. “Whenever anything happens, _you’re_ always there.”

“Eden,” Keteriel said, ticking off on her fingers. “The Watchers. When Kralel Fell. And when the Apocalypse didn’t happen. You’re the only one who’s not an archangel who is always _around_ when something happens.”

“I’m just cursed, I suppose,” Aziraphale said. He poured more prosecco.

“And then, yesterday, I saw you,” Bareqethiel said. Aziraphale’s hand stilled, and he set the bottle down carefully. “I saw the Archangels drag you through, and you were gagged and and your hands were tied, and then a _demon_ came up. I had to watch him outside while whatever… whatever happened in the Archangels’ room happened. And you walked out and you were _smiling_, and the Archangels didn’t come out for ages, and they’ve been furious with everyone since.”

That was interesting. Aziraphale put his glass to one side and leant forward. “They didn’t say what I was there for?”

Keteriel and Bareqethiel shook their heads.

“Ah. Well, it’s quite simple. They wanted to execute me. The demon was there to deliver the hellfire in which I was to be obliterated. But it didn’t take, so here I am again.”

The room was suddenly filled with light; Keteriel, showing her rage and disbelief right through her human body. Even Kralel had never been that green. “That’s impossible! If- if you’re even telling the truth, how did you survive?”

Aziraphale sipped his wine. “I stepped into the fire. It felt warm. I stepped out.”

“Why did they want to execute you?” Bareqethiel asked.

“Ah…” Aziraphale smiled at her. She looked back, scared and defiant. “Probably so that I wouldn’t be able to answer anyone who asked me any questions about why one second you were going to be fighting Hell, and the next you weren’t,” he said carefully, and watched the words land. “It must be dire indeed if they’ve had to stoop to _posters_. Keteriel, please, there’s no need for the lightshow.”

Keteriel remembered herself, and the light faded.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale sighed. “They can’t make an angel Fall. It’s a fundamental, ontological change. Only God can do that. Even if I were to Fall, then I would be a demon, and I would be able to speak to demons about what I knew. Just like if I were kept prisoner in Heaven, I would be able to talk to angels. So they wanted to obliterate me. Just like Hell wanted to obliterate the demon, Crowley. My friend,” he said, and it felt so strange to say it, strange and freeing. He wanted to shout it. “My… well. My beloved. They wanted to annihilate him as well as myself. So Heaven and Hell agreed to swap the weaponry with which to do it.” He spread his hands. “But we’re both immune now. We’re something else. Something new.”

He gave them a few moments to extrapolate what he was hinting at, as he had in Crowley’s trial in Hell. Only God could ontologically change a being. He and Crowley had been, supposedly, changed into something new. He saw Bareqethiel grasp it a half a second before Keteriel did.

“Why _you_?” Keteriel said, and Aziraphale barked a laugh.

“I really don’t know why. Ineffability, I suppose. She always had a sense of humour… I don’t think it’s particularly important, though. I think that anyone can become something new, at any time. And we will have to – become something new, I mean. Crowley and I think that the next Apocalypse won’t be Heaven against Hell. It will be Heaven _and_ Hell against humanity. It’s already begun, in that weapons exchange. They’re at a détente. At some point, you'll have to decide whom you’ll fight for. Or what. I’ve made my decision, and I’ve chosen to obey my conscience. If you pick your fellow angels, then you mustn’t be surprised when at some point you look from side to side and see that you’re surrounded by demons instead.”

The charcoal would have burnt lower by now. He added a new one, and stirred the tears of resin. He had made the right decision with the frankincense, he thought – it shrouded them a little. Made his cold words more gentle. “I only let myself be surrounded by one demon,” he said. The smoke rose, but Crowley’s little snake lungs might find it a bit difficult to cope with. “Come out, my dear, you can’t let me take credit for all your ideas.”

Bareqethiel screamed as Crowley slithered out from under the sofa; Keteriel grasped her arm, and they both stared in horror as Crowley resumed his human form with a cough. “Urgh, angel, I hate that smell.”

“You know how rarely I have it out – and it’s hojari grade as well! You just have no taste. Get a glass and I’ll pour you something medicinal.” The two angels watched Crowley as he obeyed and sat, and as Aziraphale poured out a fresh glass for him. “Where were we up to?”

“Why the Archangels – and the Lords of Hell," Keteriel added with a dark, suspicious look, “wanted you both dead.”

“Ah, right, yes. Well, as you observed, we were there. Gabriel and Beelzebub were very insistent on everything going according to the Great Plan-“

“And Aziraphale asked whether the Great Plan was the same thing as the Ineffable Plan,” Crowley interrupted. He was looking at Aziraphale proudly. “The Great Plan might have been for them to start Armageddon….”

Aziraphale smiled shyly, and for a moment it was like the other angels weren’t even there. He forced himself to snap back. “But the _Ineffable_ Plan might have been for us to stop it. And they didn’t know if they were the same thing or not.”

“Which rather ties into why I Fell,” said Crowley, and gave a little wave to Bareqethiel. “Hi, by the way. You’re looking well. Anyway, this wasn’t the first time the Archangels have tried to kill Aziraphale. The other time was twelve years ago. I was undercover for Angelic Corruption.”

“As you can see, he did very well,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley laughed.

“Yes, whole thing went absolutely according to plan. He wasn’t guilty of anything – at least nothing spectacular, unless you ever see him at karaoke – but Gabriel was so very insistent that he not leave Heaven alive. Now. Keteriel, you’re a principality. I know you’ve probably not spent much time with Aziraphale despite that.”

She at least had the grace to look a little ashamed. “Well, he was assigned to Earth, so…“

Crowley snorted, but Aziraphale could tell he didn’t really find it funny. “Yeah. Right. No need to lie.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You’re lying by omission,” Crowley said, not harshly, but firmly. “We all thought he was a stupid bloody prick and dodgy to boot.”

“Why, thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He put acid into his voice, but for Crowley, at least, he could show that he wasn’t hurt. 

Crowley quirked a half-grin at him. “We were all idiots. And none of us even bothered to find out if it was true. Because, deep down, we knew something was wrong. Even if you were stupid, God said you were innocent.” He looked back at Keteriel. “Even the humans know you’re meant to be hospitable to strangers. But I was there too, remember. I remember that none of the principalities went to help him after the Wrath of God-“

“Crowley!” The muscles in his back were like iron; there was a sharp pain that shot up his back. Two sharp pains. He could almost feel his leonine head, wanting to yawn, to stretch his cramping jaw.

He couldn’t think about that. Not with two angels there. It surprised him that _that_ was the thought, that Crowley wasn’t included, but he had worked very hard to avoid thinking about that day for six thousand years, and now was _not the time_. It was a well, and if he leant over to try to glance the water at bottom, he wouldn’t stop falling for a very long time. “Not now. I can’t… Not now.”

Crowley chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Anyway. You, Keteriel, a principality. Me and Bareqethiel, normal bog-standard angels. But Aziraphale here used to be a Cherub, back in the day. When’s the last time either of you saw a Cherub?”

The seconds dragged silence after them like a dead body.

“About a thousand years, I reckon,” Crowley continued. “Maybe more. Ditto a Seraph or a Throne. Ditto, and this is the crucial one, God.”

“She’s listening, still. But not talking. She’s not speaking to the Archangels, maybe not even the Metatron,” Aziraphale said.

Keteriel stood up. Her mouth was tight, but her eyes were anguished. “You’re lying. How can you say such a thing? Come on, Bareqethiel, you were right, this is pointless.”

Bareqethiel didn’t stand. She was staring at Crowley. “Is it true?”

Crowley nodded. “I’m afraid so. That’s why Aziraphale was a liability. He was the only angel to move from one sphere to another. Without him blithering on about Ineffability, it’d just be the Archangels and the Metatron hammering on about War instead.”

“This is _treason_,” Keteriel hissed. “The idea that God isn’t speaking to- to the _Metatron_, even, to say that there’s some kind of _conspiracy_-“

“It is treason,” Aziraphale agreed mildly. “That’s what the charge was, the second time at least. But treason against whom? Because I've never committed treason against God, or I’d have Fallen.”

Keteriel shook her head. “I don’t know _how_ you haven’t!” She looked at Crowley. “Is that why _he_ Fell?”

“_I_ Fell because I said that God could go and fuck Herself,” Crowley said. “She just replied _likewise_. I saw what Gabriel was willing to do to keep this all under wraps, and I'd had enough. They were trying to kill Aziraphale, and Falling provided a rather spectacular distraction. I'd have done it anyway, but I thought I could time it properly, and I did. I told them that if anything happened to Aziraphale I'd march straight Downstairs and tell the guys down there everything I just told you. Think about it.” He spread his hands in an exaggeration gesture of confusion. “If God and Heaven are perfectly aligned… How can Aziraphale be judged worthy of death, but not Fall?”

“That was _twelve years ago_,” Bareqethiel said suddenly. She looked angrily at Aziraphale. “Why didn’t you say something _then_?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer her. He raised his eyebrows at Keteriel instead.

“He did,” Keteriel admitted. Her mouth was twisting. “You sent that message to us.”

“I wanted to see if there was anyone to whom it was safe to speak,” Aziraphale said. “And… well. I received my answer. But sometimes ideas can take a while to settle, or grow. I thought that I could give a suggestion. An option, if things turned bad down the line, and I was gone. I thought that you were an angel who – even if I couldn’t trust you – would think about new information at least. Sometimes that’s all we can ask for.”

“Why didn’t you tell _all of us_?” Bareqethiel snapped. “You could have come up and told us all, _some_ of us would have listened! If you’d just come up and shouted-“

“Like Lucifer?” Aziraphale said sharply. “And cause panic? Cause a riot? Cause bloodshed? Never. I am meant to _protect. _You can’t just speak, Bareqethiel, without thinking of what will happen if by some miracle someone actually listens! That’s why I sent the message to Keteriel, and a few others. Angels who I thought might, possibly, be… Thought, and trust, and solidarity. Compassion. _Decency_. Without any of that as a foundation it’d just be angel against angel. I was there the first time. I fought. Not again.”

“It’s angel against angel already,” Crowley said. His voice was quiet.

Aziraphale glanced at him in warning. “No.” He looked down at the censer, and lifted the lid. Put it down. Realised he hadn’t registered what was inside. He lifted it again. “This needs more charcoal. I’ll get some more.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. His voice was very gentle, and when Aziraphale glanced up he saw that Keteriel and Bareqethiel were staring at Crowley in something like disbelief. “Come on.”

Aziraphale knocked his hand against the table, two sharp raps, and took the lid off the censer again. “I said, not now. I need to put this in the bin or it’ll catch fire – can’t have that, not with such nice frankincense-“

“No one wants any more frankincense, angel. I can barely _see _you.”

“Well, there’s not much else I can offer as a host, is there?” Aziraphale snapped back.

Crowley plucked the censer from Aziraphale’s hands and shoved it to the side. Aziraphale barely felt angry; he felt cornered. Instinct didn’t tell him to run, or become aggressive. Instead he smiled, desperate, and the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Crowley reared back as though Aziraphale had slapped him. He exhaled through his nose, leant back in his chair. He placed his hands, palm up, on the table between them. It was an apology, and a request, and an offer of assurance. Touch, instead of removing his glasses.

It took Aziraphale a second, but then he painfully swallowed past the lump in his throat and took Crowley’s hand.

Crowley’s thumb brushed across his white knuckles. “It has to be said,” the demon murmured, and Aziraphale could feel the painful love that seeped into him from Crowley’s skin. He barely knew what he was sending back. “It’s been angel against angel since Eden. They got a taste for it in the First War and they’ve been happy to indulge in it ever since.”

“Oh, Crowley, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be so melodramatic!” He squeezed his eyes shut, before he remembered the other two angels there. _God_ only knew what they were making of this _performance_, it was so _embarrassing_. He fixed his gaze on the censer instead. “That’s completely different!”

“No, it’s not. Just because it’s ‘_only_ _you’_, it doesn’t mean it’s different,” Crowley said, just as firm. “You’re not worth less than any other angel, Aziraphale. They’re the ones who made it angel against angel, any angel. Not you.”

“But it would be. If there was another rebellion, if the Host was split again-“ Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t _know_! I know you two came down looking for answers, but the truth is that we barely understand what happened on Saturday, and we were there!”

“We’re not talking about that now,” said Bareqethiel. “We’re talking about tomorrow. About the future.”

“You’re the one who said that God is separate from the Host,” added Keteriel.

“No! See, this is exactly what I mean!” Aziraphale said to Crowley, wretchedly. He looked back at the angels. “We’d _know_ if we were separate from God.”

“You would,” Crowley said. “You’d be completely certain. Believe me. God is _there._ She’s _listening_. She’s just not _speaking_. If you take anything back Up from this conversation, take that. That anyone who says they know what God wants, and what She’s told them She wants you to do, they might be lying. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that anyone who’s not in God’s sphere and says that is lying. If suddenly Heaven’s full of seraphim and cherubim when you go back up, ignore us.”

He looked at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale felt lost in admiration for him. For Crowley’s mind and his commitment. And for, underneath all of that, the buried idealism of Kralel, who had been his friend too.

Crowley seemed reassured by whatever he felt through their clasped hands. He turned back to the angels. “But if it’s not – if it’s just Gabriel and the archangels telling you all about how humans need to be wiped out, or how War is necessary and inevitable, doubt them. Take back the thought that God might be testing all of us as well, and act accordingly. And if angels think that terrorising other angels is justified if that angel is a _traitor_ or a _failure_, know that eventually it might very well be you who’s the traitor and the failure. Speaking as someone who’s happily both. But what they do is _wrong_. And even if they do it for the most righteous of reasons, it’s still wrong. It’s always wrong.”

“We made our choice,” Aziraphale said. His voice had a crack running right down the middle of it. “I had to do something. We both did. Billions of innocent people were going to die. We can’t tell you what to do, because we don’t know what’s going to happen, or what they’re going to do, but… that’s the long and short of it.”

Crowley squeezed his hand, and let go. He went out to pour a little water into the censer and scrape the debris into the bin. Aziraphale heard him turn the kettle on. He closed his eyes for a moment to gather his strength, and gave Keteriel and Bareqethiel a tired smile. “We’re still trying to work it out ourselves. Don’t risk yourselves needlessly. I suppose the only things we’ve really learnt is to trust people. Find people to trust. And they’ll let you down, and you’ll let them down, but trust them anyway. And trust God if you can.”

“But don’t trust Gabriel or any other archangel as far as you could spit them,” Crowley added as he came back in. “Just to be the voice of realism here. If you want to talk to us again, you should try to set up some new channel of communication. I promise you, every Heavenly system is watched, and a lot of the Earthly ones too. Don’t write anything down.”

Aziraphale blinked, looking up right through the ceiling. “Yes, all the more pertinent things. I’m sorry. I know it’s all a lot to take in.”

“We’ll think about what you’ve said,” Keteriel said carefully. She looked at Bareqethiel, and they rose as one. “And. Um. Thank you. For talking to us.”

“Both of you,” Bareqethiel added. “It’s… I don’t know if I believe it. It feels so…”

Aziraphale nodded. “I know. Believe us, we know. Just take care of yourselves.”

“Speaking of which, we need to get these bodies back before anyone notices them missing," said Keteriel. "I’ll try to think of a way for us to talk. If you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale shook his head.

After a second of silence, Crowley realised that he was being asked too. “Yeah. No problem. As long as you’re smart about it.”

“Of course.” They went to the door, and Bareqethiel walked through. Keteriel hesitated for a moment. “Thank you, for the, er, frankincense.”

Aziraphale gave a surprised laugh, and waved at her as she nodded back, and left as well.

He breathed easier when they had left Earth, nonetheless. “Were you boiling the kettle?” he croaked.

“You’re so English. Yes, I’ll heat it up again. I think some camomile.”

“Yes, certainly. No caffeine.” Aziraphale looked at the grain of the table and listened to Crowley potter. “I’m-“ He stopped, and heard Crowley stop too. He bit his lip, and looked up at Crowley. “I’m sorry. About that.”

Crowley immediately came to put his arms around him. His sunglasses had gone when the other angels had. He was standing, and Aziraphale was sitting, so Crowley bent right over, his chest at Aziraphale’s crown, and his arms wrapped around his head, reaching down to press his hands to his shoulders.

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Crowley said. “Should be me apologising. I shouldn’t have pushed. Got too angry. Not at you,” he quickly said, and kissed Aziraphale’s ear. “Not at you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into Crowley’s abdomen. His own arms wound tentatively around him. “It’s like it’s a person. It’s always standing there, in my peripheral vision. Looking at me. It fades if I sleep or drink, but it always comes back. I’ve been running away from it for so long. It wants to make eye contact and I just can’t. I just can’t.”

“Don’t have to today. We’ve done plenty today. Plenty for this whole millennium,” Crowley said. “But when you do want it look it in the eye I’ll be here.”

He groped until he found Crowley’s hand, so that he could feel his fear, and his gratitude. “What if I said the wrong thing? What if I said something wrong and they go up and-“

“You didn’t say anything wrong. It was all the truth. Just truth. What they do with it, if they do anything, that’s up to them.”

Aziraphale clung tighter to Crowley, and his shoulders shook. He felt Crowley press deeper in return, curl tighter. “I feel like I just handed them the apple. God. Oh, _God_.”

Crowley pressed a hard kiss to his hair. “Good. _Good_, Aziraphale. They should have plucked it themselves and eaten it long ago.”

Crowley’s t-shirt was wet against his cheek as he moved his head. “What if I’ve done the wrong thing?”

“Then God needs to be a bit more explicit with Her instructions. It’s all right, my angel. Don’t worry. It’s all right.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have come to the end! I'm amazed by how many people have been reading this monster, which started out as a very silly AU. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your wonderful comments and kudoi!

They rarely went to the Admiral Duncan anymore. The old crew were now at the age where it was becoming more and more obvious that Angel wasn’t aging, no matter how dim the lighting or heavy the make-up. But a week after the world should have ended it was Doc’s 60th birthday, so tonight they went, Aziraphale bearing a bottle of Scotch from the year in which Doc had been born.

“Wow,” he said, as he read the box. The party had claimed some tables at the back, and the box was passed around for their friends to admire. “Angel, that’s… That’s incredible.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “I’ve been sitting on it for a while. I could have for another twenty years, I hope, but… well, Crowley and I are going travelling for a while.”

Doc passed Crowley a glass of white. “Travelling? Where?”

“All over. Crowley’s never been outside England, after all. There’s a lot to see.”

Doc looked at Crowley; they had never spoken about what Crowley had revealed, but after twelve years he was granted smiles again at least. “Where to first?”

“Aziraphale wants us to fly to Japan. I said absolutely not – short distances first.”

Doc was pouring for Aziraphale, and nearly spilt it all over the floor. He dropped his voice very low. “When you say _fly_…?”

Aziraphale smiled, as coy as the heroine on a Georgette Heyer cover. “I had to fly at the weekend, and it showed me how out of practice I was.”

“I thought you did very well,” said Crowley.

“Well, thank you, but I ached like anything all week. I felt like I’d pulled every muscle in my back.”

“It was a weird weekend,” Doc said, and passed the next glass to Aziraphale. “Tell me if you like this one, it’s quite fruity. Yeah, the weekend… I keep trying to think of _why_ it was weird, but it… It’s like it slides around.”

“It was probably the heat,” Aziraphale said. “Like one of those desert mirages. I always find that time moves very oddly when it’s so hot.”

“Probably right. I’ll go and get us the next bottle; don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s chilled.”

“Before you go,” Crowley said, and pulled a wrapped present out of a carrier bag. “Mine.”

Doc was visibly surprised. “Oh.” He wiped his hands. “Thanks, Crowley.”

Crowley smiled at him. They never used the old nickname anymore; they weren’t friends, but there was a respect between them. Besides, drawing any attention to Crowley’s eyes given the sunglasses would just have been awkward.

Doc pulled the matt black paper off, and revealed a largish wooden box. “Holy shit!”

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked. He read the label upside down once Doc had opened it. “Omega? Oh, is it a watch? It’s a La Generale Watch? I remember when they changed their name, it was ever so confusing.”

Doc looked at him helplessly. “It’s an Omega Seamaster.”

“Ignore him,” Crowley said to Doc. “He still has a pocketwatch. Do you like it?”

“I can’t,” Doc croaked. “It’s too expensive, I couldn’t possibly-“

“Sure you can,” Crowley said. “You looked after Aziraphale after… After we’d both had a really shit night. One that neither of us would have survived if you hadn’t lent me those DVDs.”

“It’s a hell of a repayment for lending you some DVDs!” Doc said weakly.

“It’s not for the DVDs,” Crowley said. “Look, I’m a demon, I’m not meant to do nice things – just put it on, incite some envy for me.”

“Though you are retired now, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “We both are.”

“You can retire from being an angel? From being a… a…?”

“Just job descriptions.” Crowley shrugged. With a flick of his finger the watch was out of the box, and fastened around Doc’s wrist. “There.”

Doc looked down at his wrist and smiled wistfully. Crowley grinned. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks. Honestly, this is… I’ll take it off, it’d be just like me to smash it or something on the first night. I’ll put this in the locker in the back; I’ll just be a sec.”

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley very lovingly. “He likes it.”

“You didn’t persuade him to accept it? You know…” Crowley wriggled his fingers.

“No, no. I thought about it, but no.”

“Good. He’s got no reason to trust me, but…”

“But you are trustworthy,” Aziraphale finished, and kissed him. He clenched his hand in Crowley’s jacket; it still felt terrifying, to kiss in public. “Could you go along to the bar for a bit, buy us some cocktails? Don’t look this way, I don’t want to burn your eyes out.”

“Sure thing. Let you say your goodbyes.”

Doc came, still looking overwhelmed. It always made Aziraphale feel very fond. He had treasured every little gift a human had ever given him, and all the ones which Kralel and then Crowley had given to him. He knew that the value didn’t matter (though in this case it had probably helped), but it was a measure of thought and care. “He likes you a great deal, you know. You were the first human who was a friend to him.”

“Ah…” Doc looked along the bar. “I still can’t get over it. I mean… I always thought it was my silly little belief. But you’re really…?”

“Yes. Really. I don’t know what you saw or didn’t see, that night in the hospital, but I suspected, when you started calling me… what you did.” Aziraphale smiled. “I’m glad he told you. We’re not meant to, but there are always exceptions. I suppose it makes you a prophet.”

Doc barked in laughter. “Is that the distinction? Maybe, then.”

“Maybe. Listen, I can’t go into it all. But Crowley and I are…”

“Together?” Doc was _grinning_ at him. “Fucking finally.”

Aziraphale blushed; even his scalp felt hot. “Oh, well. Well. Yes, I suppose we are. Sort of. Finding our way there, I suppose. No, what I was going to say is that we’ve… been retired, from our positions. Retired with rather extreme prejudice, it must be said. But Crowley’s only been on Earth for twelve years, and he’s barely been outside of England. So we’re going to travel for a while. I want to show him the rest of it.”

“Ah. I suppose ‘a while’ might mean something different to you than to me.”

“It might. It might not! But just in case, I wanted to let you know. We’re going to move to Sussex at some point, but travel first.”

“You don’t know something about how long I have left, do you?” Doc asked anxiously.

“No! No, no, no, dear boy – absolutely not. I read prophecy, but don’t have much skill for it myself. I’ve done what I can to ensure that for however long you live, it’ll be in health and happiness, but this is a normal human goodbye.”

“Thanks. I mean. Ezra, you _know_ I can never thank you enough. I’d never have met Robbie! Never had had all this. More than thirty years.”

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale said. “Really. It was an honour. I only wish I could have done more. For all the rest of our friends. I was cut off for five years, and by the time I could do more than visit and nurse it was… Well. You remember.”

“I do.” Doc raised his glass, and Aziraphale chinked it.

They drank, and Aziraphale sighed. “I need to thank you as well. For that day after the bookshop burnt.”

“Oh, that doesn’t compare!” Doc said, gesturing up and down himself.

“No, it doesn’t. What you and the others did… I can’t explain what it meant to me. And I wasn’t able to say it at the time, but…. I’m trying to think of how I can contextualise it. But fewer than ten humans had more kindness and more grace in them than ten million angels. That’s what you showed me.”

Doc clasped his hand. “I don’t understand, Angel.”

“I know – I’m sorry, I know. But believe that. It’s important that you know that.” Aziraphale leant forward, and kissed Doc’s cheek. “Thank you, Daniel.”

Doc brought his arms around him, and hugged him. “You too. Look, you’ll visit, whenever you’re in London?”

“Of course. You and Robbie.” Aziraphale pulled back. “Now, before I get too drunk, or before Crowley looks over and I accidentally kill him.” He placed both of his hands on Doc’s forehead, with gaps in between his fingers for the Presence of God. “God bless you, and guard you. God make Her face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you. God lift up Her face towards you, and give you peace.”

Doc breathed out. “She’s a She?”

“She is to me,” Aziraphale said, smiling, and cupped his hand around his mouth. “Crowley! You can come back, my dear!”

Doc raised his glass again. “You can always come back.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – I know you two,” said Crowley as he juggled the glasses. “Only if I’m bearing alcohol.”

*

The western sky was painted with a thousand shades of pink and orange, coral and salmon and Persian Rose. A few breaths of cloud floated over the sea, scattered puffs of lilac and gold.

Behind them, the tourists of Dún Aonghasa took photographs and made their Instagram followers jealous, and behind _them_, beyond the four ancient circles, lay the karst landscape of Inis Mór, harsh and tamed.

No one took any notice of the two men sitting on the edge of the cliff, legs dangling a hundred metres above the crashing foam of the Atlantic Ocean. Aziraphale had passed their bottle of whisky to Crowley, and told him that looking out in this direction, there was no land at all until Puerto Rico, five thousand miles away.

All afternoon, the sea had been a true ultramarine, as blue as Mary’s mantle, embroidered with pure white; now, it was like a rhapsodic rainbow, changing every second as the sun set. The foam was a pale blushing pink, dancing up as it crashed on the rocks below them.

Heaven has nothing like this, Crowley had said.

Heaven never had anything like this, Aziraphale agreed.

The fortress closed, and the humans left. The sky turned blood red, and the whisky made their bellies hot and the sun shimmer.

Then, all of a sudden, it dropped away. One second it was there, and the next, it was gone.

“It’s going to be the most beautiful night.” Aziraphale looked up. “See? You can already see the stars coming out.”

“And the wind…” Crowley stood up, and let it tear through his hair like the rough touch of an ecstatic lover. He grinned and dropped the bottle down to Aziraphale. Then he took off his jacket.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, and put the bottle down. “Already? All right. Yes.” 

They shed the clothes from their upper bodies. Aziraphale weighed them down with rocks. Then they took off their shoes and socks as well; the grass was wet, and cool. He glanced at Crowley. “You’ve not flown at all, since…?”

_Since you Fell. Since the sensation of Falling_.

Crowley shook his head. “It’ll be all right. I’m with you.”

“You are,” Aziraphale said, and unfurled his wings. It was bliss, that sudden unfolding, that great bursting free, the stretch and the cold air and hook of excitement that curled around the bottom of his spine and jerked. The wind caught him immediately, and he was lifted six inches off the ground; he gave a kind of screaming laugh, which Crowley mirrored, and they gripped each other.

“Not yet, not yet!” Crowley shrieked, grinning wildly, and brought out his own wings. They were as dark as the Eastern sky, and even more beautiful, shaded with the deepest blues and greys, and here and there something lighter, something brighter.

A thousand new stars blazed above them every second, but they couldn't see them. They were cocooned in a heaven of feathers, and the wind whirled around them.

Crowley’s skin was cold; Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, trying to cover as much of his skin as possible. Crowley kissed him gratefully, and shuffled them towards the cliff edge. Aziraphale felt Crowley’s long, clever fingers tracing the scars up his back, on his neck and shoulders, and he clung all the tighter.

He knew what Crowley was saying. That they had both been thrown down, in their own ways. That they both had scars.

“The wound is where the light enters,” Aziraphale quoted, and kissed Crowley’s ear. The wind buffeted them, and they giggled like children at the sensation of it.

They both had nightmares of falling, twelve years later. A very long fall into fire and sulphur, or a very short fall onto the point of a blade. This had been Crowley’s idea, once he saw the height of the cliff; the whisky had been for courage as much as enjoyment.

“Ready?” Crowley said, grinning with sharp teeth, and Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, beamed, wriggled.

He nodded. “Ah, ah, yes, yes! Go!”

“All right,” Crowley said, and pulled them both down, over the cliff edge.

They plummeted towards the Atlantic and shoved apart from each other; the spray wet their skin, pushing up against the rocks in the water’s desire to reach them; the wind caught them and lifted them up, right up above the fortress, above the whole island. Crowley _whooped_ at the speed and the joy of it; Aziraphale screamed and laughed, and opened his eyes to see a million million stars.

Crowley made a great loop in the evening air, and then brought his wings back and _dived_, right down to the sea. Aziraphale followed him a second later, and they swooped low, low enough to wet their hands, before climbing again. Aziraphale tried his own loop, and dove away; Crowley hovered above, and Aziraphale remembered the old name for a kestrel: _windfucker_.

He climbed back up to tell Crowley, who laughed, as he knew he would; and then made a rude gesture in the wild winds, which he really ought to have predicted.

Then, of course, Aziraphale had to chase him in mock anger. If angels had ever been children, this is how they would have played. Crowley banked and turned, dancing on the silver air, but Aziraphale wasn’t as slow as he looked on the ground. He caught him, and they fell again, in the same embrace. And again they parted just metres above the sea, and each was dragged up into the blazing sky again.

There were so many stars that for the first time in a long, long time, to Aziraphale’s eyes, there was more light than darkness, and Crowley’s face shone brightest of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am of the firm belief that Crowley being an annoying prick was the reason St. Patrick banned all snakes from Ireland, and Crowley has never been able to return. Of course, in this universe, that never happened, so Crowley is able to visit!
> 
> Also, a final shout-out to the real Jose, who is e'en now underneath my window, shouting "CUNT!" at passers-by. Please don't worry about fictional Jose, Aziraphale felt very guilty about wanting to murder him, and made sure he was well looked after.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading along as I wrote, and to everyone reading since I've completed it! I've been blown away by how kind everyone has been, especially about a very silly, rather risky AU! Thank you all so much!


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